


Drabbles

by Hanna



Category: Dragon Age, Iron Man (Movies), Mass Effect, Supernatural, The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011), Thor (2011) RPF
Genre: Amnesia, Character Death, F/M, Incest, Kidfic, M/M, Mpreg, Multi, RPF, Smut, Techporn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 22,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanna/pseuds/Hanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bunch of drabbles which aren't long enough to be individual stories. Multiple fandoms/relationships/etc. Refer to individual chapter heading for further info on each drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forget Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Thor/The Avengers  
> Relationship: Thor/Loki  
> Rating: Teen

Thor blinked at Loki with no trace of recognition in his eyes.

"Do I know you?" he asked.

Loki tried very hard not to cry.

He remembered a hundred nights, loving nights where they just cuddled under the blanket in a hotel, or Thor's chambers on Asgard and slept, Loki curled into Thor's chest as he spooned him, their breath as one, nights so bittersweet he could still taste it on his tongue.

But he remembered a thousand more where cutting words had driven one from the other's side, where a careless word from Thor had sent Loki off and he had not forgiven Thor for days. Where a cruel, cutting, measured word from Loki had sent Thor into a rage and he had Mjolnir clenched in his fist before he realised what he was doing and stormed off and shouted he never wanted to see him again.

He remembered each and every making up, each and every apology for words spoken in anger or carelessness, each and every time that he had spoken coldly, that Thor had forgotten after, how bitterly they had stung, how much he had questioned his place in Thor's life.

He remembered honing his hatred into a sharp blade with which to cut Thor to pieces, and honing his love into a gentle kiss to soothe the pain.

He remembered Thor's hurt, the pain in his piercing blue eyes, and the more the centuries dragged on the more hurt he was, the more hesitant to trust Loki, the rougher he was, the less tender, as if he was afraid that this night was the last he would have Loki, the last before Loki left him for good.

He remembered a thousand years of being brothers, lovers and enemies.

Thor's eyes were not hurt as he looked at Loki, just confused, as if he was searching his memory for something that was no longer there.

Loki shook his head.

"Sorry," he said. "I thought you were someone else."

Then he turned away and let the first tear slide down his cheek.


	2. Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Mass Effect  
> Relationship: FemShep/Kaidan  
> Rating: Teen

Kaidan had hoped not to wake at all. He'd seen Shepard run into the beam, knew she wasn't coming back out. He'd tried to shout for her, yell for her, run faster, but knew it was fruitless. All along, it was going to end this way. He knew that. When darkness had taken him, he'd embraced it, unable to contemplate living without her. And then he opened his eyes.


	3. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Thor/Avengers  
> Relationship: Thor and Loki (brotherly or romantic; up to the reader)  
> Rating: Teen

The rain had stopped falling. As Thor had lain dying in a pool of his own blood, Loki's dagger in his heart, it had rained steadily, no storms; misery, not anger. But now his hated, loved blue eyes were lifeless, the hand previously clutched to Loki's chest as his breath wheezed in and out of his, blood trickling from a corner of his mouth, limp in the muddy, bloody soil beneath him, and the rain had stopped falling.


	4. For the Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: pre-Iron Man  
> Relationship: Obidiah Stane/Tony Stark  
> Warnings: Underage  
> Rating: Explicit

Tony was delectable, laid out across the bed, eyes slightly glazed as Obie smoothly slid in and out of him, gripping the sheets with his hands, gasping and groaning and moaning, and Obie almost forgot why he was doing this, that it was for the good of the company.

Starks were tempermental; it took a lot to make them happy. For Howard he needed a listening ear, and that man could _talk_. Tony needed praise and attention, praise and attention Howard was always too busy to give him, and Obie had stepped into that role, those shoes. Tony had told him once that he was more like a father than Howard when he was drunk beyond belief.

Obie thrust again and smiled at Tony's whimper, the broken "Please, Obie," that fell from his lips.

"Alright," he murmured. "Alright, Tony." He gripped him, rubbed the head of his cock with his thumb and Tony writhed beneath him. This might be for the company, but this in and of itself was reward enough. Tony was beautiful as he fell apart. As Tony shattered beneath him, keening, he sealed his lips over his and told him so.


	5. Life Goes On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Dragon Age  
> Relationship: F!Hawke/Fenris  
> Other: Kidfic  
> Rating: General

The child cried; Hawke groaned and rolled over, hiding her face in the pillow.

"Babies," she muttered. "When did I ever think this was a good idea?"

Fenris chuckled; she shoved blindly at him. "You settle her," she muttered and pulled the blanket over her head. His warm, strong hand came down on her wrist and the other tipped her chin up. She had to resist the smile that wanted to appear when he stared into her eyes and kissed her. She returned it.

"Rest, love," he said. "Rest. I will settle her."

He kissed her again and she pulled him down into a deeper kiss. He chuckled, warded her off and rose, heading over to their daughter's crib. She rolled over to watch him pull the girl into his arms, tuck her against his chest, her little pink fingers grasping at him as her cries quieted, her pointed ears twitching. Fenris caught her eye and smiled, and she smiled back as she slipped into sleep.

XX

Hawke found her outside playing in the mud one day when she was four. She was staring intently at her arm as she traced something upon it, tongue poked out in concentration.

"What you doing, Beth?" she asked, moving close, crouching before her. Beth looked up, her black hair falling over the tips of her pointed ears, and held her arm out, where white clay was drying in patterns on her skin. Inwardly Hawke groaned at the prospect of cleaning it off. Her daughters's green eyes met her own brown.

"I wanna be like Daddy," she said earnestly. Hawke took another look at the patterns and could not decide whether to laugh or sigh. They were rough, but she had traced those patterns in bed time and again, trying to make Fenris more comfortable with them, to associate them with her and not Danarius. Beth cocked her head, seeking her mother's approval.

"Did I do good?" Ignoring the prospect of cleaning her shirt, blood was harder than mud and she'd cleaned that lots, she took Beth in her arms. Beth was careful not to smudge the clay.

"Yes," she said, stroking her filthy hair. "You did."

XX

Hawke would never cease to marvel at how very domestic Fenris was; when she carried Beth in, the girl being very careful to not smudge her clay-painted arms, she stopped and smiled for a moment at the image of him starting to prepare dinner. Beth pulled her hair. "Mummy, I want to show Daddy," she insisted. "Stop staring at him." She chuckled lightly as Fenris turned around.

"Show me what?" he asked, and she thrust her arms out. He froze for a long moment and Hawke met his eyes.

"Be cool," she mouthed at him over Beth's shoulder as her small face fell, and Fenris forced himself to smile. He stepped close, putting the knife down, and took one of her arms gingerly. He was always so careful with her; so was Hawke. She was so fragile it felt like they would break her. And they both knew they could be unaware of their own strength. Even Hawke, trained in daggers and sneaking, had to be strong to slit throats. They did not want to harm their daughter. He looked over the clay markings and down at his own arm. Beth pulled at his arm, put hers by its side.

"I didn't do it right," she said, pouting, and he pressed his lips to her forehead.

"They are beautiful," he assured her.

"But I wanted them to be like yours," Beth complained into Hawke's shoulder, turning away unhappily and glaring at her arms. "Yours are so pretty, Daddy." Hawke let Fenris pull her into his arms.

"They are beautiful," he repeated, and she smiled a little when he started to tickle her, giggled and kicked out at him with a tiny foot. "Now let your mother wash you; it's nearly dinner." Beth reached out for Hawke, who took her in her arms and kissed Fenris before carrying their daughter out the back.


	6. Eat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Thor  
> Relationship: Jane and Darcy, Friendship  
> Rating: General

"Jane," Darcy said from the doorway, watching her friend scribbling in a book, scribbling whatever it was she scribbled in her astrophysics prattle that Darcy could barely follow. She waved a cup of hot coffee, spreading the fumes. "Jane," she sing-songed.

"Later," Jane said, distractedly, already reaching back for the coffee. Darcy sniggered and held it back so she grasped thin air only.

"You said that three times. It's three in the afternoon and you still have no eaten." Jane made a non-committal noise. "And I won't bring you more coffee. You have to come out and get it." She waited, tapped her toe, leaning against the doorframe.

"I'm so close," Jane said. "I've almost got the calculations." Darcy sighed, a drawn-out, put on sound.

"You said that the last three times too. Now, eat." She entered and shut the book on Jane, who grabbed the coffee. As she sipped it, Darcy towed her out and sat her at the table, where she'd laid out bacon and eggs. Jane gaped at her.

"You haven't eaten today, and the only proper breakfast is bacon and eggs," Darcy said, grinning. "Now, eat." Jane's lips twisted in a rueful smile.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," she said as she picked some bacon up with her fingers, tearing a strip off and nibbling at it. Darcy sat opposite her looking satisfied.

"You'd die of starvation," she said matter of factly. "Now eat. You can get back to your fancy calculations later."


	7. Just Another Very Intelligent System (who watches Tony's porn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Iron Man/Avengers  
> Relationship: Tony Stark/JARVIS  
> Other: Techporn.  
> Rating: Explicit

JARVIS was a sadist.

That was all Tony could think when his suit entered his room, while he was stretched across his bed working on his Starkpad, and carefully took the pad from his hands and set it aside. He glared balefully at it.

"JARVIS," he complained, "I was using that." The eyes of the suit seemed almost challenging as JARVIS pushed him down and pinned his wrists above his head. He jumped. "JARVIS!" he yelped. He swore that his suit _grinned_.

"Sir," his AI replied as he settled between his legs and studied him. He lifted him effortlessly but still ripped his shirt in the process of getting it off.

"JARVIS, that was my favourite," Tony complained. JARVIS looked up at him.

"Sir, you have five more in your closet," he replied neutrally as he removed Tony's boxers. Tony squirmed and JARVIS looked up at him again then tickled him. Pinned, he could do nothing to stop him, but that didn't stop him from trying. JARVIS ignored him as he continued to tickle him.

"JARVIS!" he protested breathily. "That isn't the point-" his voice left him as JARVIS brushed across his cock lightly then grasped it in hand.

"I am monitering your vitals, sir. If you become panicked I will stop." Then his suit proceeded to give him the best handjob he'd ever recieved and he lay back, dazed, wondering where on earth JARVIS had learned all this. "From your porn collection, sir," JARVIS said, and he belatedly realised he'd spoken out loud. JARVIS leaned close to his ear.

"You can take more," he said, smooth British voice going straight to his cock, and he wondered when he'd programmed him like this. This time JARVIS did not reply. The suit's gloved fingers ventured down to rest at his hole instead. Tony moaned.


	8. Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Mass Effect  
> Relationship: F!Shepard/Kaidan  
> Other: Post 3; Shepard lives  
> Rating: General

She was still in the hospital; she'd been there for a long time, ever since they found her, almost dead, barely breathing, amongst the rubble. He'd stayed by her side ever since, sleeping in a chair, eating only when it was brought to him or he was forced out. But she was awake now, and impatient to leave, and the hospital was ready to let her go.

She was still unsteady on her feet but rejected his support.

"Don't blame me when you fall," he snorted. She punched him in the arm and pulled him in for a kiss.

"Bastard," she said affectionately.

"I love you too," he said, smirking, and she kissed his smirk away.


	9. Miss Potts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: The Avengers  
> Relationship: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark/Bruce Banner  
> Other: Office sex, dom!Pepper  
> Rating: Exlicit

"Mr Stark," Pepper said, sternly, as he strolled into her office. He grinned up at her.

"You call-" he broke off upon seeing the hard, teasing look in her eyes and swallowed, throat suddenly very dry. "You called?" he asked, voice rougher. She smirked at him, beckoned him forward with an indulgent gesture, and he did as he was bade as if he were a puppet on strings.

"I did, Mr Stark," she said. "You owe me a design." He had to think back; right, the improved StarkPhone. He'd finished that ages ago. It didn't take long. "Well?" she asked. "It was supposed to be in two days ago.

"It's done," he shrugged. She tapped her fingers on the desk. "I'll get it to you." Her smile was positively terrifying. "Was that all, Miss Potts?"

"No," she said, and pulled her chair back, leaving ample room for him to crawl in under. It was a large desk; large enough for him to comfortably rest on his knees underneath if he had his head bowed.

He knew. He'd had practise.

Excitement and anticipation blazed through him as he approached her side.

"You owe me an apology for making me wait," she said against his ear as she pulled him down, her lips tickling the shell and he let her push him to his knees. He crawled under the desk and situated himself comfortably.

"Allow me to make it up to you," he said, fingers playing at her skirt. She pushed the chair back in and he was wedged further back.

"Do so," she said, and he teased the skirt over her hips, her underpants. He took a moment to admire the view until she put her hand on his head, pulled his hair lightly in warning and he bent down and got to it.

He swirled his tongue about and was rewarded by her breath hitching, a small, stuttering gasp leaving her. He explored deeper, tongue pushing into her shallowly until she pulled his hair and forced him deeper. He hummed deep in his throat.

The door opened and he did not stop. He'd keep doing this until she pulled him away, through her meeting; he'd done it before. He grinned impishly and she lightly tapped his head but didn't pull him away.

He realised why a second later when he heard Bruce's quiet footsteps.

"I was looking for Tony," he said as she pulled him into a kiss, a long, deep kiss. Tony mirrored the action and she gasped into Bruce's mouth. He blinked then looked down at Tony.

"I see he's here."

"He's making up for handing his design in late," Pepper said, her voice higher than usual, and she pulled Bruce into another kiss. Tony stared up at Bruce, slightly miffed.

"Why do you get the kiss?" he asked, pulling back. She pulled him forward by the hair again.

"Did I say you could stop?" she asked. He laughed.

"No, Miss Potts," he said as Bruce smirked down at him and he resumed his task.


	10. Blindfold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Thor/The Avengers  
> Relationship: Loki/Thor  
> Other: Incest  
> Rating: Explicit

Loki always had been helpless to say no to Thor's big blue eyes. His deep, thundering voice had always sent chills down his spine- first because he adored his brother, then later, in a rather different, unbrotherly way. His joy on finding out his feelings were reciprocated was almost disgusting to look back on. Almost, because he knew that, even now, if Thor looked at him, begged him, he would be helpless to resist him. Thor had always done this to him.

That was why, now, Thor was blindfolded. Because this way, he could not looked straight through Loki with those eyes, deep, loving, and Loki always felt the urge to run when he gave him that look. Thor shifted beneath him.

"Loki?" he asked, uncertain, and Loki wished he'd thought to gag him. But no, he did not want to do that. He wanted to hear his brother, his lover, fall apart. And so he soothed Thor with a kiss.

"I am happy," he assured him and felt Thor relax beneath him. He made sure he was prepared before he moved between his legs. He kissed Thor as he sat upon him, sank upon him, felt his thickness piercing him and relishing in the feeling as Thor groaned beneath him. He gripped Thor's fingers tight and Thor returned his grip, and they moaned in unison as Loki sank another inch down.

"Loki," Thor groaned, twitching but resisting the urge to thrust up into him. He was such a good boy. Loki rewarded him with a kiss and another inch. "Loki," he said again, more feeling in his voice, arching his back.

"Thor," Loki panted, unable to think past the current moment, the sensations, the deliciousness of being filled. "Oh, Thor." Thor thrust up; Loki met it, the pair melding together as if they were halves of the same whole, the same way they always had, even when they thought they were brothers. He kissed Thor hungrily as they moved together, felt the urge to remove the blindfold and let Thor's earnest love fill him just as surely as he was. But he could not do that; could not face that. He did not deserve that, and still felt sure sometimes that Thor was faking it.

So he left the blindfold on and just sank down another inch.


	11. Smutty Thorki drabble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Thor/The Avengers  
> Relationship: Thor/Loki  
> Rating: Explicit

Thor ran a finger down Loki's spine and Loki felt himself shudder. He gripped at Thor's shoulders and hissed at him, a strangled sound. "Thor, if you do not just fuck me-" he hissed and Thor chuckled, pressed a kiss to his lips.

"Is that what you want, Trickster?" he asked, and Loki could _feel_ his smirk. He glowered at him, and could not suppress a moan when Thor took his cock in hand and traced the precum at the slit.

"Yes, damn you-" he threw his head back as Thor encircled the organ in his rough, lubricated palm and ran it up and down, tracing the vein on the underside. Loki fucked into his hand uncontrollably.

"Thor," he gasped. "Thor." Thor grinned down at him and he cursed him roundly. Who knew Thor had such a mischevious streak? "Thor, just fuck me already, stop teasing me-" his voice broke off in a high keen as Thor's tongue flicked the head of his cock. "Thor!" he gasped as his warm mouth encircled him and his finger probed at his hole, slipped inside, opening him up.

Loki surrendered to the sensations crashing onto him and just lay back, gasping and writhing, cursing Thor and moaning as the dual sensations took him utterly.

"Thor, I hate you," he panted.

"I know," Thor said, as he postitioned himself and entered Loki properly.


	12. Unborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Post Avengers  
> Relationship: Thor/Loki  
> Other: Mpreg  
> Rating: Teen

Loki rolled on his back and groaned. He didn't recall it been this bad; didn't recall the constant ache in his back and calves, the way he could not eat without throwing up before twelve, the way he constantly craved grapes. He liked grapes, sure, but to crave them all the time? He didn't think he'd be able to look at a grape again after this.

He shut his eyes and splayed his hands over his engorged belly. He could not wait for this child to be born.

Thor's child to be born.

The thought sent shivers up his spine, of excitement, of trepidation. One day Thor was going to be king, he would have birthed his heir, he would be his... Thor had promised not to call him Queen, but there was no other title for him, other than 'Consort'. And he did not like either title.

He sighed.

Would he never be accepted in Asgard except by his relationship with Thor?

The thought was bitter and brief, because he loved his brother, truly did. He loved his smile, his blue eyes, his trusting nature. It was that nature that allowed Loki back in graces so soon after Midgard and the Chitauri. Thor wanted to love his brother.

Loki sometimes hated him for that.

But not right now, as the door opened and Thor entered carrying a platter of grapes. He sat it on the bed and sat beside Loki, lifting him gently so he was settled between his legs, rubbing his belly, resting against his chest. Thor's thick, calloused fingers felt funny against his skin, and he felt the baby shifting in response.

He smiled despite himself and plucked a handful of grapes from the platter.

"Are you well, Loki?" Thor asked, rumbling into his ear. Loki turned to steal a kiss from him.

"I am," he said, chewing a grape slowly, resting against Thor's broad chest, letting him explore his body, straying from his belly to the slit that had appeared between his legs. He slapped Thor's hand away.

"Not now," he said, and Thor laughed. He removed his hands and settled them atop Loki's belly. Loki interlocked the fingers of one hand with his and turned for another kiss.


	13. A Bad Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Dragon Age  
> Relationship: F!Hawke/Fenris  
> Rating: Mature  
> Other: Mild bondage

"Are you certain?" Fenris asked, staring at Hawke as she stood before him, a length of rope in her arms. She watched him, waiting for his response. "I do not think this is a good idea."

"C'mon, Fenris," she said, grinning. "This is a great idea. Haven't you ever wanted to tie me down and stop me getting into trouble?"

"On many occasions," he muttered. "But this is not a good idea." Hawke took a step closer, eyes cajoling.

"C'mon. How much do I have to annoy you to get you to do it? Will it take me dancing? Singing? You hate my singing, that ought to-" Fenris snatched the rope from her and she grinned triumphantly.

"I forbid you to sing," he growled as she lay back on the bed, hands joined under her head, watching him smugly. He dragged them up and tied them together.

"I can still move them," she teased him, and he shot her a long look. She smirked as he removed her dagger from her belt and cast it aside.

"You want to play my way? You play my way," he said firmly and she made an appreciative noise.

"Now you're getting it," she said, happily. He leaned over and silenced her with a kiss.

"Now be silent," he said. "And let me do this. My way." She blew him a cheerful kiss.


	14. Coat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Dragon Age  
> Relationship: M!Hawke/Anders  
> Rating: Mature

“Will you never get rid of that thing?” Garrett asked, pointing at the feathered coat that hung in his closet, old and grey and- “Molting?” he exclaimed, disgusted. “Anders! Your coat is molting in my closet!” Anders snorted.

“What, on top of your old, torn pants?” he sniggered. Garrett turned to him, hands on his hips, looking affronted.

“Those pants are important,” he said indignantly. Anders raised an eyebrow at him. “What? They are.”

“Why? Afraid you’ll lose all your clothes, ser nobleman, and have to wear old castoffs?” He snickered. Hawke had to resist the urge to grin.

“It never hurts to be prepared,” he said, sticking his tongue out at Anders. Anders crossed the room and kissed it back in, cutting off his thoughts and catching off guard. He pushed him onto the bed while he still had the upper hand.

“You weren’t prepared for this,” he whispered low into his ear. Hawke’s laugh was weak.

“No I was not,” he said, as he squirmed, struggling to get the upper hand, but Anders held him down and kissed him again.

“Garrett,” he whispered into his mouth, “My cloak can molt in your closet.” Garrett’s sound of agreement was muffled by the kiss as Anders sealed his lips over his and settled on either side of him, holding his arms above his head.

“Can’t it, dear?” he smirked, his eyes lit up teasingly.

In reply, Garrett kissed him.


	15. New Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's New Years Day, and Dean wakes up beside Lisa.

He woke in a soft, warm, familiar bed with Lisa cuddled against his back, her arm thrown over his hip, and smiled. Her breath was even and slow and he longed to turn around and kiss her. But she was a light sleeper and he would not wake her.

He was alert instantly. It was one of the things he’d always done, growing up as a hunter. He felt the ache of missing Sam anew. Usually their New Years weren’t anything special, no holiday was, but he was still his Sammy, and he felt like screaming and digging to Hell himself every time he thought of him stuck down there with Lucifer, felt like crying and giving up for letting him end up there.

But he couldn’t, because Sam wanted him to have his family. He told him to find Lisa, he made him promise to find her.

And now, for a year, he’d woken up with her comforting weight against his back, to Ben waiting downstairs. He’d shown Ben how to fix a car, had promised to teach him to drive when he was old enough.

He’d bought a new truck, equally old, but he could not stand to drive the Impala anymore. She was parked in the garage, under a sheet, all decked out with his hunting tools, and he felt so bad for abandoning the life, for letting people suffer.

But then he looked at Lisa and Ben, at his family, and it felt right.

It wasn’t even about Sam anymore. He stayed here because he wanted to, because this was the happiest he had ever been. This was his house, his family, and he was almost happy.

He’d even let himself think he had a future here. He could help Ben, teach him to handle life, make it so that he never had to hunt. He could give him a childhood with a present father-figure, the childhood he’d always wanted, the childhood he’d never had.

He was not Ben’s father, he knew, but that didn’t matter to him.

Lisa wrapped an arm around him as she slowly woke up and he turned. Her eyes opened a slit and she smiled at him, tipping her face up to meet his eyes.

He bent down to kiss her and she snuggled into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and held her, his love for her almost outweighing his grief for Sam. For the moment he forgot about Hell, about hunting, about the bottle on the bedside table.

He held the woman he loved in his arms and felt complete.

When she kissed him back he just had to say it.

“I love you, Lisa,” he said, not caring how corny he sounded. She made a happy sound against his chest and mumbled in agreement, already dropping off again, and he just held her as she slept, felt her chest rising and falling and found himself smiling.

It was a new year, and just maybe, this new life could be his- could stay his. Just maybe he could find some happiness in the hand he’d been dealt after all this time.

He let himself hope.


	16. Return Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean returns from Hell.
> 
> Sam shows his gratitude.
> 
> Rating: Explicit
> 
> Pairing: Dean/Sam

In front of Bobby, once the ass-kicking was out of the way, Sam had greeted Dean with a brotherly hug, though Bobby’s eye roll said he knew exactly what he wanted to do. He also ground his crotch against Dean’s in promise and threat, and Dean’s eyes had fluttered closed as he relaxed against his brother, letting him carry his weight.

Dean was in good condition, better than Sam would have believed for escaping Hell. Unblemished, in fact. He held him at arm’s length for a moment and Dean submitted himself for his brother’s inspection.

After that he did not take his hands off him even once. He was always touching him, his hand, his arm, his shoulder, his hip, and Dean was driven to distraction by it but did not push him away- did not want to. He touched Sam just as much and Sam was getting very frustrated himself.

If Dean was not careful, he would just push him to the ground soon, Bobby be damned.

He might do that anyway.

And from the gleam in Dean’s eyes, he obviously knew it. His teasing brushes against him were not accidental. Sam knew when Dean was trying to goad him into fucking him into the mattress. He knew when he tried to goad Dean into fucking him into the mattress too.

Right now, though, he needed to feel Dean around him, all around him, to blanket his brother and know he was there again, there and safe.

Bobby left shortly after, and Sam couldn’t stop himself. Dean grabbed his hand and their lips crashed together in utter relief, all teeth, but they did not care about finesse. Sam was half-hard and he saw Dean was too, but he could do no more than pulse against him and felt Dean respond. He wasn’t sure who was moaning; maybe the both of them. They grappled so hard that Sam was sure they’d be bruised in the morning, but he did not care.

He pulled Dean close and kissed and kissed him until his lips were raw, his tongue seeking entrance his yielding mouth willingly provided. He felt Dean’s chest heaving, felt his own heaving, and could not even think about letting go.

He felt Dean’s hands grasp at his groin and he groaned as he palmed him through his jeans, panting. Finally he oh so reluctantly dragged him to the bed.

“I am going to screw you into this bed,” he growled in his ear, felt Dean shudder beneath him, all the way down his spine, as he wrestled his shirt off. “I am going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to sit for a week.”

Dean moaned as Sam pushed him onto his back, ground against him.

“I missed this,” he breathed, voice thick. “It always was fun to rile you.” Sam’s smile was positively feral.

“I’m going to fuck that right out of you,” he said. “You hear me?” He nipped and sucked at Dean’s throat and his head fell back as he grasped for Sam, held him tight, needy.

“So you say,” he said. “Put your money where your mouth is, little brother.” Sam’s kiss was harsh and biting and Dean arched into it with a strangled groan. Sam made quick work of the jeans which covered the legs beneath him before he stripped his own off.

He made himself take a deep breath and calm down before he actually hurt Dean. He reached for the bedside table for the lube and coated his fingers in it, reaching down, carefully avoiding the hard, leaking cock above his entrance. Dean pulsed up and Sam held him down.

“Tonight we do this my way,” he said, as he probed at the entrance with was tight and practically virgin now, what with this remade body, with one fingertip.

Dean’s breath shuddered in his chest and a strangled sound left him as he arched up to try and draw him deeper. Sam smirked.

“Tonight, we’re doing this my way,” he said again. Dean groaned. He knew Sam’s way- Sam like to tease and torture until he was begging. Sam had this smile that promised that if he held on, it would all be worth it- and it was, it always was.

He let his head fall back on the pillow.

Sam kissed the inside of his thigh.

“I have so missed you,” he breathed. “I will never let you go again.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean groaned as the finger delved deeper, seeking out the spot that made him buck and curse every time. “I-  _ah!_ ” He writhed and bucked off the bed as Sam pressed, deliberately, hard.

“Sorry for what?” Sam’s breath ghosted over his skin and he writhed helplessly.

He did not know what he was apologising for, nor did he have the brain power to contemplate it at the moment. He just arched up as a second finger entered him and scissored him.

“Sam,” he gasped, voice strangled. “ _Sam!_ ” Sam’s smirk made him groan and as he massaged his prostate, firmly, his eyes rolled back in his head.

“Tonight I’m not going to touch you,” Sam told him, conversationally. His head jerked up. “Tonight I’m going to fuck you, and you will come from that.” It was a promise. He opened his mouth and a third finger entered him. Whatever he was going to say trailed off in a high keen as he jerked up, fucked himself on Sam’s fingers. Sam watched him, grinning, the little shit. He’d been so long without this, he was half-wild with pure need. So desperate that he couldn’t hold off. But he wasn’t full, not nearly. Three fingers didn’t do it.

“Sam,” he choked out. “Sam, I…” his hands fisted in the sheets and he arched with a cry as Sam twisted his fingers, crooked them.

“I know what you need,” Sam said, kissing him. He sealed his lips over his desperately, sucking at them, no finesse but he was far too far gone to care. He whimpered when Sam removed his fingers, trying to chase them, but before he could the head of Sam’s cock was nudging at his hole.

“Please,” Dean pleaded, pushing forward. “Please, I need…”

Sam pushed in just as he rocked forward and he cried out loudly as his brother’s length slid inside him. He was seated in one push and then they just lay still for a long moment, Dean’s inner muscles twisting around Sam, the feeling of glorious  _fullness_ all he could contemplate. Sam’s face was twisted in pleasure as he twitched his hips, Dean jerking beneath him, the pair panting in sync.

Sam waited for him to nod before he started to move, and Dean fisted his hands in the sheets, white-knuckled, twitching with every move, jerking, writhing, unable and not wanting to hold still. His body moved of its own accord and he jerked right off the bed, clenching Sam deeper when he brushed against his prostate.

He wailed when Sam adjusted his angle so he was driving against it, clenched, and it didn’t matter that his cock was hard, straining and untouched against his belly, leaking, he could only focus on how full he was, how much he’d missed this. He pushed up, clenched, fucked himself hard on Sam and Sam let him, let him angle the thrusts so that he was being properly speared each time. He was babbling and Sam kissed him quiet, brushed a hand over his forehead, wiping off sweat, licked at his nipples and played with them with his fingers and each time he touched him Dean whined and moaned, fucking himself harder.

He felt Sam’s balls tightening against his hips and felt his thrusts become hard and erratic and soon enough he was pulling out, despite Dean trying to hold him in. Sam spilled over his stomach and face and then Dean was lost, his head thrown back, grabbing for Sam as his come joined his brother’s, crying out. Sam held him tight as he rode the aftershocks and then feebly stirred.

“Should we…” he began. Sam pressed his lips to the back of his neck.

“In the morning,” he said, as he curled around his brother, pulling him into him, and Dean relaxed against that broad chest, let Sam hold him tight. His heat was lulling his eyes closed and his breath was evening out.

Sam kissed the tip of his nose.

“I missed you.”

“Mmh,” Dean mumbled in agreement as he drifted off.

He swore he heard Sam say “I love you,” and wanted to return it, to affirm the truth that his years in hell had only strengthened in him, the rightness of it deep in his bones, but he was too tired, so tired, and he could only hold him tighter in answer.


	17. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean returns from Hell.
> 
> He's changed.

Sam found him dozing on the couch, a beer in his hand, porn playing on the television. He turned it off and stepped away to go back to bed, looked at him for a long moment.

He was still watching him when Dean’s eyes opened, panic and fear filling them for just a second, and he recoiled.

 “Sam?” he asked, voice rough with sleep, and looked around. “Did you turn the TV off?” Sam could not bring himself to ask if he was okay.

“Yeah,” he said. “It was keeping me up.” Dean stared at the dark TV for a moment.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Half past two.” Dean frowned.

“What are you doing up?” Sam gestured to the TV. Dean looked at his bottle and took a long gulp from it.

“Oh.” The memory of the fear in his brother’s eyes made Sam talk next.

“You okay, Dean?” he asked. Dean nodded with a grin that was not as light as he’d tried to make it.

“Sure am,” he said. “Better than ever. Get some sleep, Sammy.” Sam nodded and turned back to the bed. He heard the door open and shut and when he looked around Dean was gone.

He went to the window and peered through. Dean was sitting on the step staring into the distance, his beer clutched in his hand, which was shaking. He turned away.

XX

When he slept, he dreamt.

When he dreamt, he dreamt of Hell.

He dreamt of the screams and the fear and the pain and the searing heat, the heat which peeled flesh from bones. He dreamt of the faceless torturers and his own raw throat, of seeing himself whittled to a bloody pile of nothing. He dreamed of the terror which came with awaking a new day in a new body and the dread of knowing that this one was just going to be torn to shreds like the last, and the one before, like countless bodies that preceded it.

But more often than not he dreamed of the decade he’d wielded the whip. The decade he’d torn flesh from bones and drew strength from their pleas for mercy, the decade he’d taken pleasure from their screams, the decade he’d spent off the rack, trying new things, trying everything that had been done to him on them.

He dreamed of the black-eyed monster he was sure he’d become.

And when he woke he grabbed for his beer in an effort to forget that monster, he grabbed for the remote and watched porn, he went on long drives and avoided looking in the mirror.

For he could lie to Sam, he could lie to Bobby, he could say he was fine, that he did not remember. He could even lie to himself in the light of day. But he could never lie to the mirror.

For in the mirror he had black eyes, and it didn’t matter how often he blinked, how often he scrubbed at them, his reflection knew the truth.

His reflection knew what he was.

And he could not escape that, could not let Sam see that. He could not let Sam know what he was, because then Sam would hate him, and he was a selfish man, but he could not bear it if Sam knew him for the monster he was.

He could not bear to lose Sam.

His reflection laughed at him, its black eyes boring deep into his soul.

When he slept, he dreamt.

So he did not sleep.

XX

Sometimes Sam looked at him as if he were afraid of him.

It was at those times that he hated himself the most, that he avoided mirrors the most. He was listing his own faults already, he did not need the monster in the mirror to do it too.

But he knew that the monster was not the mirror, but his true reflection.

He was amazed that Sam could stand to be near him at all. He was so sure that he had black eyes at times, that he was truly everything he had always hunted.

To prove to himself that he was not he would sometimes drink holy water.

It did not burn as it went down.

He felt worse.

Because if a demon was not the reason Sam was afraid of him, he was the reason. And he could not allow himself to frighten Sam, to let Dad down one last time. If he was not a demon, he was himself, and he knew what he was capable of, what he was.

He was a monster.

He was not a demon, but he was a monster.

And in his experience the humans always were the worst monsters.

He was a monster, and he could not stand to see his brother’s fear of him, the brother he’d always protected, the brother he’d always had to protect.

He’d let Dad down before, and he would not do it now.

But as he watched Sam draw away from him when he turned to him after ganking a demon or burning a body, when he saw the fear in his eyes, the shock, the unrecognition, he knew that he was.

He knew when he could not stop Sam from trusting Ruby, when he could not stop him from going out on his own to do God knew what, that he was failing Dad once more.

He drank.

He drank more than he’d ever drunk.

It did not help.

He was still a monster, he still failed Dad, still failed Sam, he still dreamt.

And he drank more.

XX

When he was a child, he used to think he wasn’t good enough. He was told to protect Sammy and yet he kept running away to where he could not defend him. He tried to protect him from the life they led but wasn’t allowed to tell him about it. He was always told to protect Sammy, it was the only thing he had to do.

And he failed, so many times.

As an adult he felt he had to protect Sammy, and yet he failed, over and over again. He sold his soul for him and came back to find him consorting with a demon. He was so angry- he was furious. He wanted to knock some sense into Sam, to make him see what he’d suffered for him, but all he could do was yell.

And Sam had never responded well to yelling. He watched the distance, the rift grow, and could do nothing to stop it. He could only yell louder and Sam ignored him even more.

He even told him about hell.

Sam did what he was doing more.

“I have to stop the apocalypse, Dean,” he said. “I have to.”

_Why you_ , he wanted to ask.  _It isn’t your job_. But he said nothing.

He could say nothing to get through to him.

He could not sleep for nightmares, had no appetite, drank copious amounts of whatever alcohol he could get his hands on and could not bring himself to care that he was neglecting himself.

The only thing he cared about was Sam, and if he was failing him, as he was, he might as well be back in hell.

He tried to ignore what Sam was doing, to confront him about it, to do what they’d always done. He tried everything he could think of and in the end it was not enough.

Nothing he did was ever enough.

Nothing he’d ever done had been.

He gritted his teeth and sucked it up. He had a job to do. If Sam thought he could stop the apocalypse his way, he had a duty to stop him. If that meant stopping it himself, then he would.

He’d do whatever it took.


	18. Banter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for ohmercyme221 on tumblr.
> 
> Her prompt: Tony and Thor banter that turns dirty (because Tony) and Thor shows himself as surprisingly able to keep up.

“Hey, big guy,” Tony called. “Could use your muscles down here.” Thor followed the sound of his voice to find him in front of a large cardboard box. It was open and wooden, labelled parts were strewn about the floor. He raised an eyebrow. “No one else will help me put it together,” he complained.

“What do your require assistance with? There appear to be instructions,” he said, pointing at the paper, Tony crossed his arms over his chest and pouted.

“Do I really have to do everything around here?” he asked. Thor laughed.

“I shall assist,” he said. “What do you wish me to do?” Tony gave him an appraising look and he returned it, his lips quirking up at the side. Tony grinned.

“Alright, big guy. See that base? Pick it up for me, will you?” Thor bent over and Tony took the chance to check his ass out. He picked it up and stood, turning back to Tony.

“Where do you want me to put it?” he asked.

“You need to hammer it to that,” he said, pointing. Thor sat it down and picked up the indicated part.

“I will assume you have a hammer,” Thor said. Tony sniggered.

“You have a hammer, big guy,” he said. Thor smiled.

“I will assume you don’t want me to use it on this.” Tony laughed and chucked him a hammer and nails. He turned the base over and set a steady rhythm, hammering the nail straight in three strokes.

“Working that hammer there, big boy,” Tony called, grinning. Thor kept building the unit.

“Unless you want me to give you the hammer,” he said, raising an eyebrow at him. Tony smirked.

“Give it to me then,” he said with a suggestive eyebrow, wiggling his ass. “Come on.” The look Thor gave him made him grin shamelessly.

“You’ll have to bend over,” he said and Tony laughed aloud. “If you really want me to give it to you.” He lovingly stroked the handle of the construction hammer he held.

“Oh, I do,” he said, and Thor strolled over to him as he stretched on the floor. He put a hand on his buttcheek. “In the corridor? Kinky.”

“A promise,” Thor said instead, leaning over him to pick up the instructions. “Now, I need to hammer this piece of wood to that one.” Tony sat wideeyed as Thor read them out loud, suggestively, squirming.

“Forget the cabinet,” he growled, grabbing Thor’s wrist and towing him away. Thor laughed.


	19. You Ran Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a gif set found on tumblr here: http://hanna377148.tumblr.com/post/38859935484/rocksalter-thecoatinmytrunk
> 
> Kid!!Dean and Kid!Sam.
> 
> Kid!Sam runs away. Kid!Dean is frantic.

“Sam!” Dean called, desperately. “Sam! Sam, where are you?” He ran across the street, looked in people’s backyards, knocked on every door of the motel, his heart thudding, his breath high and tight. He could not lose Sam- he could not. He would not. He had to find him.

“Sam!” A woman stopped him, glaring disapprovingly at him.

“What’s the racket for young man?” she asked.

“It’s my brother, he’s missing,” he babbled. “I have to find him. Sam! Sam!” Her face changed instantly to pity.

“What does he look like, dear?” she asked, concernedly. He didn’t think twice.

“He’s younger than me, he’s got dark hair, he’s tall- please, I have to find him-” She put a hand on his shoulder.

“We will,” she assured him and turned around to look. He ran off.

“Sam!”

XX

He paced in the motel room, trying hard not to cry, to hide in a corner. He had lost Sam, and when Dad came home… he gulped, his breath quickening. He had to find Sam.

He did not sleep a wink that night.

XX

The next day he widened his search, searched the woods, knocked on doors, asked around. He looked in every bolthole he could find, stood on the side of the road and asked passing drivers.

But he never went to the police. The very thought of going to the police fiilled him with an unnameable terror. And so he kept looking, and looking, and looking.

XX

When he heard the knock on the door he knew it was Dad.

His heart stopped in his chest and he forgot to breathe. With trembling fingers he reached out and opened the door, legs barely able to support him, so scared that scared did not even cover it.

Dad came in looking tired and sat down without looking at him.

“You boys okay?” he asked. He did not reply and Dad turned to him. “I asked- Dean, where’s your brother?”

It escaped him in a rush.

“I was shopping, getting food, he’d promised to stay where he was, to stay here, and I got back and he was gone and I-” Dad stood up and he fell silent instantly, head down, shaking hard. He twisted his fingers and prayed, hard.

“You let him get away.” It wasn’t a question. He did not answer. Dad moved closer. “You let him get away.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, he promised to stay-” The backhand cut him off and he fell into the wall, staring wide eyed up at him, tears welling in his eyes.

“I told you to look after him!” He stayed still and silent, cowering against the wall. “I told you to look after him and you let him get away!” The fist crashed into his face and he blinked. His lid dragged and he knew it would be a shiner later.

He cursed Sam and then felt instantly guilty about it. It was his fault. He’d let him get away.

He said nothing as he was dragged up and held close to Dad’s face as he shouted, didn’t fight him. He let him shake him, let him slam him into the wall and when he’d expended his rage he dropped him and stormed off.

He slid down the wall and stared blankly at the other wall, tears streaming down his cheeks, bowing his head, shaking so hard he could barely move, and stayed there all night.

XX

When Sam came back a week later his first impulse was to hug him, hold him tight. But he held back at a look from Dad, flinching back slightly. Sam did not notice, too busy trying to fight Dad, and he sat on the bed.

That night Dad left and he could not look at Sam.

“What happened to you?” Sam asked when he got a good look at his bruises as he changed for bed. “Dean, what happened to you?” He tossed what he hoped was a carefree smile over his shoulder, wincing as he turned his neck.

“Training accident,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.” He paused. “You okay?” Sam nodded, slowly.

“Yeah,” he said. There was a long moment of silence.

“Night,” Dean said, awkwardly.

“Night,” Sam said.

XX

Sam stared at him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “Why didn’t you tell me that-“

“That Dad beat me up for letting you get away? I don’t know, Sam. I can’t possibly imagine why.” Sam winced.

“For what it’s worth, sorry,” he said, quietly. Dean stared out the window.

“Not much good to me now,” he said.

“I know,” Sam said. “But I am.” He turned to Sam.

“I know,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.” And he tossed him what he hoped was a carefree smile.


	20. Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean says yes to Michael.

He saw it the way Cas was staring at him. He saw it in the way he held himself, high and proud, eyes harsh and unyielding. He saw it in the way his gaze had flicked right over him as if he meant nothing to him and settled on Cas, the way his jaw had set at the sight of Cas.

“Castiel,” he said, disapprovingly, and before Cas replied, he knew.

“Michael,” Cas said, and Sam closed his eyes.


	21. Irredeemable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas present for ohmercyme221.
> 
> Post Avengers- Thor brings Loki back to Asgard and struggles to forgive him and move on.

Mother told him not to give up on Loki, that he was and always would be his brother. Father said he deserved his punishment, that one day he would be his brother again. Everyone else said he was beyond redemption.

He did not know what to think.

After he’d handed Loki over to Aesir justice, seen him secured in the cell, still bound and gagged, after everyone else had left apart from the guards, he’d stayed with him.

“Why?” he asked after a long moment of just staring at him. “Why, Loki? Why did you do it?” Loki’s eyes sneered at him, mocked him, laughed cruelly at him. His once so kind eyes, that once danced with love and laughter and mischief, now filled with utter hatred.

“Why?” he asked again, not moving, not expecting an answer, knowing that even if he removed the gag Loki would not give him one. “I don’t understand, brother.”

He would never be sure after if his eyes had said ‘I am not your brother’ or ‘you never did understand’. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither. Perhaps something else entirely. Perhaps they said nothing; perhaps hatred was the only way Loki saw the world now.

Heart breaking, he left and shut the door behind him.

XX

He went back to Midgard to gain space and perspective, helped them rebuild. He got to know his team. And with each brick he had to stack to repair buildings, each crying orphaned child he saw, each hateful flash of Clint Barton’s eyes when Loki was mentioned, his heart grew heavier.

Loki had to be punished for what he had done here, to these people, for his inexcusable cruelty.

XX

The others rarely spoke of Loki around him, but he knew what they said when they did talk about him. He knew they condemned Loki and pitied him for being his brother, for his devotion, and he understood their sentiments. He also knew that whenever he heard Loki’s name spat like a curse his blood rose and he ached to throttle someone and defend his honour.

He steeled himself by wrapping leather around Mjolnir’s handle, lathering attention on his armour and hammer, cleaning them until they gleamed. He could not blame them for their hatred; he could not help his brotherly instinct.

Loki was his little brother. He always would be.

XX

He did not return to Asgard for months, and he was no less conflicted when he did. He did not return to Loki’s cell right away, unable to reconcile his little brother with his team’s hatred of him, the damaged he had done.

When he did, Loki just stared hatefully at him again, and again, he simply asked why. Again he received no answer.

Again he left, unable to face this specter of his brother.

XX

The Allfather’s justice did not come for a long time. Time passed slowly on Asgard; when one lived a thousand years a number of months, a handful of years, was nothing.

Thor visited Loki a handful of times, each visit shorter than the last. He tried to talk to him, to tell him childhood stories, but they hurt too much to remember, to remember the Loki he spoke of. He tried to tell him of Midgard, of Alfheim, of Nornheim. He tried to speak of his children, the children Odin Allfather had banished to the ends of the World Tree. Only then did he get a reaction; hatred blared in Loki’s eyes, hatred enough to drive him away.

He stopped visiting Loki soon after.

XX

When he returned to Midgard he reported that Loki was held securely, well guarded, that punishment was being decided. They expressed disbelief in the time it was taking, and he simply told them they lived a thousand years and Loki’s crimes were severe; his punishment needed to be adequate.

They didn’t say anything about how stooped his shoulders were, how mournful his eyes were, and he was grateful.

XX

He was called home for the sentencing two months after his return to Midgard. He almost visited Loki, he stood outside in the corridor for a long time and stared at the door and finally turned away, unable to face the hateful green eyes he knew would be waiting for him.

So the first time he saw Loki in months was at his sentencing.

He was brought in between two guards, in chains, still gagged. His piercing green eyes passed over the crowd which watched, some somber, some eager, and he sneered. When he turned to Thor, Thor looked away. He could not stand to see. Still, he knew Loki was smirking. It galled him to admit that he was defeated, but he would not look upon his brother- he could not.

Father gestured, murmured, and the gag vanished, though Loki remained chained. He stayed proudly silent, a viper in the midst of hunters, knowing his power, even without magic. His voice was his true power.

“Loki Laufeyson,” Father said.

“Odin Allfather,” Loki returned, voice smooth and mocking. Thor flinched at it, so different from his brother’s laughing tones.

This was not his brother.

When Loki was sentenced to a hundred years under the snake he laughed derisively, and Thor felt his heart break, the need to protect Loki, the need for justice warring in him.

Loki met his eyes, challengingly.

He turned away.

XX

He watched Loki bound to the slab by enchanted chains, silent and undefeated.

“Why, Loki?” he asked again, equally conflicted, equally helpless. “I do not understand.”

Once again only deafening silence was his answer, and he felt every moment of it cementing the distance between him and Loki.

He also knew he would ask again and again and again in a vain attempt to shrink that gap.

Loki’s eyes laughed at him as he turned away.


	22. A Night In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> F!Hawke and Fenris, epilogue to A Bitter Pill. All you need to know about that is that Hawke and Fenris were captured and taken to Tevinter as slaves.
> 
> For waywardquasar on tumblr.
> 
> Fluff, hand porn and scar appreciation abound.

It was just a regular evening. No special events, no jobs, no friends bashing the door down to ask for help or offer company. Just the two of them, Mercy peeling potatoes and Fenris preparing meat for cooking, rubbing oil over the surface so it wouldn’t burn in the fire, his strong hands kneading it gently, and Mercy’s eyes were trained on them. They were beautiful hands, so sure and confident, gentle and firm, strong and commanding. He caught her gaze and looked up, smiling at her as she blushed and turned back to the potatoes.

Orana had offered to do the cooking, but both had declined. This was their evening, and they wanted to do it themselves. Both were uncomfortable with Orana around, scurrying under their feet no matter how many times they told her she was a servant, not a slave.

There were no slaves in the Hawke Estate. Mercy would not have them.

They worked in comfortable silence, the silence of those who had known each other long enough not to need to fill the space with talk, Fenris humming softly under his breath. When the food was on the fire they sat down to watch it, ready to turn it or bank the fire as needed. Mercy made sure she had a water spell at her fingers if it was required, grimacing as she felt the magic pulse through her.

She did not like her magic, the feel of it in her veins. But she had to use it, she knew; she needed to use it so it did not explode from her as it had at the beginning of her freedom when she had refused to use it at all, when she had given it no quarter, no room to breathe, no way to escape. She’d had a fight with Mother, and it had burst from her in a big blast, the room suddenly frozen.

She’d locked herself in her room for three days after.

But now she recognised the usefulness of magic again, it had been long enough that she could use it without cringing or feeling disgust, though she would never shake the memory of the blood magic running through her veins, the blood magic Danarius had forced her to carry for him to power his spells, the seductive whisper of demons when she was at her lowest.

She shook her head. That time was passed; she had new memories to make.

Fenris was watching her, green eyes inscrutable and she knew he knew what she was thinking about. He stepped by her side and took her hand, twining his fingers through hers. He was out of his armour, wearing just a simple tunic and pants, and looked softer for it, though she knew he was no softer, that he was just as dangerous as when he was clad in his spiked mail with his sword at his side.

She tugged on her red soft robe to cover the scars as it slipped up her wrist and he covered her hand with his other hand as he drew close, slowly, letting her close the distance between them and press her lips to his the way he knew she needed to control their intimacy. His white hair tickled her forehead as she slowly, cautiously deepened the kiss. He reciprocated just as far as she pushed and when she pulled back didn’t pursue her.

They were surprised to find Orana tending to the fire and decided to let her when her huge, hopeful eyes trained on them. They stepped aside, hands still joined, and she breathed a sigh of relief as they went into the library to sit together until dinner was served.

She lit the candles with matches, unwilling to squander her magic on such a small task, and they settled into the armchair before the fire, fitting comfortably side by side in the large chair meant for one, slim enough each that they weren’t crowding each other.

Their hands rested between them and they just sat in silence, holding each other comfortably for a long time.

They had taken a long time to grow comfortable with this level of intimacy, and the romance that had come along with it was almost a surprise. While trying to get used to friendly touch again, to the security of freedom, they had just melded together in mutual need.

It was slow. Were Isabela still in Kirkwall she’d no doubt have left suggestive notes in Mercy’s journal about what she could do or wear to get him to jump her. But she didn’t want to be jumped; she wanted to take it slow. To move from stage to stage as they were comfortable, no faster. He did not push her; she did not push him. Neither wanted to go too fast and relive their experiences, so they went slow. They held hands, they kissed, they shared a bed and pressed against each others’ sides for warmth and comfort when needed, or just when they wanted to. The last was becoming more common; both were seeking it out simply out of desire for touch more often.

She hadn’t thought to feel desire again, but here she was. And he had not thought it either, and he was rubbing her palm with his thumb tenderly, fascinated, as if it was a precious, fragile butterfly, exploring it.

It was a hand that was rough and calloused, not fragile at all. Mage she might be but she had still lived a life on the road and worked as a mercenary, even now. For she was still a mercenary; she might be paid by the Viscount but she was still a mercenary.

Athenril had been fascinated with her hands, turning them over and over while they lay in bed and wondering how a mage had such callouses and scars. She hadn’t told her the stories. There had been no emotion involved with her, both merely wanting a warm body to lie with, and both knew it. But she was willing to tell Fenris.

“Carver did that,” she said, pointing at the faint scar across her palm that he was rubbing with the edge of his thumb. He looked up at her. “We were roughhousing before my magic manifested. We had practice swords Father made for us. Carver pushed me over and I cut my hand on a sharp rock.” Fenris kissed it gently and she smiled.

“And this one?” he asked, indicating another, a small burn on her wrist.

“All my fault,” she said ruefully. “Father was trying to teach Bethany and I to control fire. I let it get out of control.” She grinned crookedly at him. “There’s a reason I do wards against fire better than fire.” Fenris laughed and she leaned close to him. He fingered the scar across the bridge of her nose, leaning close.

“Darkspawn,” she said. “We were fleeing Lothering.” She closed in for a second. She’d earned that when she let Bethany die. She sucked in a breath through her nose. “The ogre got me. I went flying with one of his shockwaves, smacked my face against the ground, earned a mouthful of dirt and a faceful of blood for my inattention.” She moved hesitantly against him and he opened his mouth for the kiss in invitation. She pressed her lips to his and he circled his arms around her waist. She leaned into the grip, feeling safe, rested her head against his shoulder upon breaking the kiss.

Fenris never shared the story of his scars. She knew the ones that had been collected with her around; the rest were inflicted while in the service of Danarius or running from him, and she didn’t press him to talk about them. She knew herself that she never spoke of her time in his service, in Hadriana’s, willingly, never mentioned the scars that covered her arms and legs and body and marked where blood was taken from her for rituals, that marked the times the demons sang to her.

He rested his chin atop her head, his fingers skating over her back over her robe, and she stiffened slightly when they danced down towards her waist. He stopped instantly.

“My apologies,” he said, and she shrugged it off, kissed it away.

“Don’t be.” He hummed against her hair and she rested against his chest in comfortable silence, hands clasped, weariness starting to come over her.

When Orana arrived they were both asleep, her curled into his chest and his arms clasped around her back. She slipped out again and shut the door quietly.


	23. Skinnydipping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor/Loki.
> 
> Skinnydipping smut.

They had being out riding together, just the two of them, for the first time in a long time. These days Thor was so busy with his friends and Loki busied himself in his studies to escape the ache of loneliness and bitterness that caused. But since his brother had come to him one night and confessed his desire for him, desire that Loki reciprocated and had for a long time, they had been spending more time together.

Thor had suggested the ride; Loki had agreed (not too readily, don’t swell his ego further) that it sounded lovely, just as soon as he finished his book, and he wanted to practise a spell… he feigned indignation when Thor dragged him out of the library, inwardly revelling in the attention.

The ride had being lovely, the day was pleasantly warm and the scenery was as nice as ever.

Now they were both hot and were stopped by a large lake. Thor hadn’t thought twice before shucking his tunic and riding pants and jumping in. Loki had an idea.

“Come on, Loki,” Thor called, grinning, emerging shaking his head like a wet dog. Loki gave him a long sideways look. “The water’s cool.” He splashed the surface invitingly and Loki, covered in sweat, ached to be in there. But he was going to do this his way.

“You look ridiculous,” he returned and Thor laughed.

“Come on, brother,” he said. Thor still called him brother even now, even in the throes of passion; it was ridiculously hot (though Loki would never admit it). Loki pretended to think about it, then slowly peeled his tunic off, revealing inch after inch of pale skin, teasing, tantalising, and was pleased to see Thor’s eyes fix on it, his tongue dart out of his mouth to wet his lips, track the emerging skin upwards. Loki took his time about it, stretching as he did, and Thor paddled closer to shore.

“Loki,” he said, and his voice had changed. It had a low, growly quality about it that sent shivers up Loki’s spine. He arched an eyebrow innocently at him.

“Yes, brother?” he asked and Thor swallowed, opened his mouth and closed it again. Loki had to resist a chuckle, pulling it over his shoulder, stretching to show himself off. Thor’s mouth hung slightly open.

“Loki,” he repeated, as if it was all he could say. Loki smirked, pleased with himself. He had noticed Thor’s tendency to get lost in him; he loved to tease him. It was a vice, but it was a pleasant one, for both of them. He twisted as he dropped it so that the long lines of his back were on display for Thor, and slowly, slowly reached for the tie of his own riding pants, clearly able to picture the way Thor’s mouth was hanging slack, his breath quick. He heard splashing but didn’t turn around even as Thor’s footsteps breached the bank.

“Back inside, brother,” Loki scolded. “I shall join you.” The footsteps stopped; Loki could almost see him reaching out as he crossed his arms over his chest and smirked over his shoulder at him, laces on his pants half undone. Then Thor slipped back into the lake, his eyes burning through Loki as he slowly, slowly reached down for the laces again. As he pulled them down, his long pale legs revealed tantalisingly slowly, he heard splashing again.

“Loki,” Thor said, voice strained, and he finally dropped them and turned to see that his hands were under the water. He smirked, sure he knew what he was doing. He sauntered closer.

“Want to touch yourself rather than me?” he asked coyly and licked his lips as he leaned forward, stretching luxuriously, watching Thor’s eyes follow the line of his bared body, as his lips fell open and he panted. He slipped into the water and caught Thor’s hands, lifted them above the water, off his manhood.

Thor could not help but run his hands across every part of Loki he could reach, and Loki luxuriated in the attention. His breath caught as Thor’s thumbs passed over his nipples and rubbed low, urgent circles there but he was too impatient to tease, and Thor’s avid attention had created tension and heat to pool in Loki’s groin. His brother’s blue eyes were so intense, so amazing, and to have the full attention of the Mighty Thor was almost too much.

He nearly moaned as Thor pulled him close but held it back, bit his tongue and leaned forward. He was tugged against Thor’s chest, his hands running up his spine for a moment before they lingered on his cheeks and parted them.

He was panting with eagerness now as Thor circled his hole with a finger.

“I don’t,” Thor said, voice rough with desire. “I don’t have…”

Loki had a spell for that. He whispered it and watched Thor’s eyes grow wide, but Thor was never one to miss an opportunity. He dwelt on it only a moment before he carefully opened Loki up, supporting him, and Loki let his head fall forward onto his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around Thor’s neck and let Thor lay him in the shallows, rested his chin so it was in the water.

He groaned as Thor scissored him with two fingers, arched his back and finally felt the head of Thor’s cock push at him. He pushed back and Thor forward at the same time.

It pushed past the resistance, the burn pleasant, and Thor waited until he nodded. Then he started to fuck him in earnest.

It was like they were two halves of one person, the way they moved together. He heard Thor groaning and half-choking out endearments he ignored by force of habit and when he clenched about him his words trailed off into incoherent series of syllables.

“Loki,” he choked out. “Loki…”

Soon Loki felt his balls tightening, knew he was close, knew Thor was close by his erratic movements.

“Inside me,” he panted and Thor lost it, throwing his head back as he spilled then collapsed forward atop Loki, resting a moment. Loki shifted beneath him and he rolled over.

Loki raised a pointed eyebrow at him and indicated his own cock, still engorged. Thor took the hint, encircled it with his rough, calloused palms. It took three long, slow pumps for Loki to be spilling all over his chest and he lay beside Thor, curled into his chest at Thor’s insistence, held there by his massive arms. Not that he was complaining, really, though he did shift about to get more comfortable.

Soon the sun’s head, Thor’s warmth and Thor’s deep, even breaths lulled him to sleep.


	24. Gagged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on this gif set: http://hanna377148.tumblr.com/post/38379898825/i-dont-actually-know-their-personalities-so
> 
> Chris and Tom smut.

“Are you sure this is hygenic?” Chris asked, eyeing the sock and elastic Tom held in his hand. Tom just grinned at him. “I mean, it’s a sock.”

“It’s clean,” Tom said. “And we’ve nothing else on hand.” Chris looked doubtfully at the items.

“There’s shirts,” he said.

“We sweated all over those filming the fight today,” Tom said. “Unless you want my sweat or yours.” He did not; it smelled bad enough. He sighed and sat on the chair.

“I trust you,” he said, wondering how much of a mistake he was making. “Go on.” Tom’s grin only inflamed the worry in his gut, and the flare of excitement. Tom moved behind him and smoothed his hair out of the way before the sock found its way into his mouth, folded in half over the elastic, and the elastic was tied at the back of his head.

It tasted strange, cottony; he could not get over that it was a sock in his mouth. It felt dirty.

Tom’s deft fingers worked at his belt and he grinned up at him as he undid it and pulled it out, and Chris reached forward to pull them down. Tom gnetly slapped him away.

“Hands behind your back or I find rope,” he said. “I have a whip, remember.” The commanding tone sent a thrill down Chris’ back and he clasped his hands behind the chair and let Tom shimmy his pants off, his long fingers lovingly stroking patterns into every inch of golden skin he exposed.

Chris shivered, feeling the blood gathering in his groin.

It wasn’t until his pants were completely off that Tom turned his attention to his half-hard member.

His deft touches quickly had him hard, and when his mouth closed over the head Chris groaned, the sound muffled by the sock-gag. Tom’s eyes sparkled as his tongue caressed the underside, tracing down the vein, and he took him deeper, inch by inch until his nose was buried in the curls at the base.

Tom hummed around him; he threw his head back with a loud groan and a garbled series of syllables.

Tom kept sucking, gently then harder, and Chris was panting above him, biting hard on the sock so not to alert any of the others to what they were doing. He didn’t think he could stand it if anyone saw this.

He wanted to keep this to himself.

He felt his balls tightening as Tom lapped at them and his head fell back as Tom drew back, curled his tongue around the crown and then dipped it into the slit, and he moaned as he spilled into his mouth.

Tom looked delectable as he licked come from around his lips and removed the sock from his mouth. Chris closed his eyes and lay back on the chair, coughing once or twice and spitting out fluff.

It was some time before they spoke.

“Find a better gag next time,” Chris said, weakly, and Tom chuckled as he kissed him.


	25. Being Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Dragon Age
> 
> Pairing: F!Hawke/Isabela
> 
> Rating: Teen

Isabela nursed her drink, staring at the dirty wood of the bar, staring anywhere but at Hawke, earnest and worried. She could not take that concern- no one had ever shown her that concern, and she didn't know how to take it. What was she supposed to do, anyway? Cry on her shoulder? Laugh it off?

That concern only went to highlight the difference between her and the Champion sitting beside her. She deserved better than her. She deserved someone who could be there for her. She had lost so much, she took so much on, she didn't need to shoulder her problems too, and Isabela could not love her.

Not the way she deserved, had earned, after all these years in Kirkwall's service.

She took a long swig of the bitter swill before her, felt Hawke's hand on her arm, and could not bring herself to shake it away.

"Thing is," she said, voice thick with an emotion she did not want to name, "We have nothing in common now. You're a champion and me- I'm just a thieving, lying snake." Hawke never moved her hand. She moved closer, she felt her body heat approaching, and a sound periliously close to a sob forced its way to the surface. She bit it down.

Hawke put her gentle, calloused fingers on her cheek, turned her head to face her, and Isabela hated herself for the tears swimming in her eyes.

"No," Hawke said softly as she kissed her tenderly, more tenderly than she had ever done anything to deserve, "You aren't."

Isabela returned the kiss, desire and something deeper swimming in her at the sight of the concern and love in those big blue eyes, drawn helplessly to Hawke as she always was, drawn as desperately to the love she had never deserved but desired above all else.

"Yes, I am," she said. "I am. I'm-" Hawke kissed her silent.

"You," she said. "You are you, and I would want you to be nothing else." A single tear fell from her eye and Hawke caught it with a gentle finger, pressed her forehead to hers.

"Why?" was all Isabela could choke out. Hawke pressed her lips to her forehead, gave her the kiss of a lover, the kiss she had always given her. She had never been just a fuck to Hawke. It terrified and thrilled her.

Hawke seemed reluctant to speak, but Isabela's searching gaze tore it from her. She looked down as if it were a shameful thing.

"Because I love you," she whispered. "And I know you don't like feelings, but I can't help it, I-"

This time Isabela shut her up with a kiss, pushed her head up with a finger, looked into her eyes, saw the truth and fear in them.

"Am you," she said, and Hawke's fear increased. "Just the way I like you." Hawke melted into her kiss.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Never apologise for being yourself," Isabela told her. "Even if you are a self-sacrificing idiot- this city would be a lot worse without you." A smile twitched at the corner of Hawke's mouth and she kissed it away.

"Stop it," she said. "Don't make this worse. I'm been all mushy now." Hawke laughed.

"We can't have that," she teased. Isabela grinned challengingly at her.

"That's right," she said. Hawke met her gaze, a gleam in her eyes that sent a shiver down her spine.

"Come and get me," Hawke said, and took off. Isabela chased her laughing gleefully.


	26. One Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Supernatural

**1**

He was a scared little boy, and he had one job: he had to protect Sammy. Dad had said so. Dad had told him. He had one job, and he kept messing it up. He couldn’t stop Sammy from running away, from running into danger. He couldn’t keep him in the motel where he would be safe. He could not make him understand the danger because he wasn’t allowed to tell him about it.

Dad had said so.

“You aren’t Dad!” Sammy screamed when he locked the door on him, and he closed his eyes, rested his head against the locked door, sighed deeply. “You can’t tell me what to do!”

He was not Dad, and that was why he could not protect Sammy.

**2**

It was far from the ideal life, but it could have been worse.

They were family. They ran together, hunted together, protected each other. He and Sam would throw back a beer after a hunt, Dad would train them a little more, Dad would research and they’d follow his directions, because he knew what he was doing.

And sure, it was dangerous, but someone had to do it.

Then Sam left, and ripped it all apart.

**3**

He could not help but resent Sam. Sam had gotten out; he’d left. He’d left his family; he was safe. He could not decide whether he was relieved or angry about that, he never could. But the fact was Sam was gone, and he could do nothing about it, and though he missed him so badly it hurt, he tried not to dwell on it.

He got hurt a few times, expecting Sam to be at his back, and Dad shouted at him for carelessness. He hung his head and took it, the lot, knowing he deserved it. He took the black eyes and bruises when Dad lost his temper, knowing he deserved it. He was careless, stupid. He had been trained to be better. He ought to be better.

He vowed to be better.

Then Dad went missing, and he had no idea what to do.

So he went to Sam.

His anger at seeing Sam with his girl, at seeing Sam’s normal house, boiled over, and he wanted to scream and shout and hold him and never let him go. He wanted to go away, to never go back, to let him live his life, but he had to find Dad- he had to.

He did not like it, but he didn’t blame Sam when he chose to return to his girl and his life.

When Sam came back he didn’t recognise him.

**4**

Sam loved Jess.

Sam missed Jess.

Sam missed his normal life.

As he watched Sam’s life go to hell, as he watched his powers develop, as he watched his smile die, he felt his own smile die, felt hatred for himself boil in his heart.

He remembered Sam with his girl.

He remembered Sam in his house.

He took him away from that.

When he could not stop him from getting involved with Ruby, he died inside. When he couldn’t stop him from accepting Lucifer, he died inside. When he came back soulless, he died inside. When the dam broke that protected Sam from insanity, he died inside.

He remembered his smiling, happy, in love brother whenever he looked at Sam, the one he had tried and failed, over and over, to protect.

And he died inside.


	27. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Supernatural
> 
> Summary: Dean is sick

Dean was sick, and Sam was worried.

Dean never got sick, not as a child, not that Sam remembered, but then, he was very absorbed in himself then, he was shamed to remember. He was always worried about his own problems, his own annoyances, and just did not see the crap Dean went through for him, because of his rebellion, for himself. He only saw his brother becoming meaner as he grew older and hated him for it.

He didn’t see the abuse Dad had heaped upon him, the number of times he’d impressed on him the need to protect Sam, or his punishments for failing to do so. Didn’t see his increased vigilance and meanness as an attempt to protect himself as much as Sam.

So as Dean lay on the bed now, feverish, eyes closed, moaning lightly, he was worried. He couldn’t hold his hand because he cringed away when he did and his lips were moving. Words were falling from them, words Sam did not want to hear.

“Stop,” he would murmur. “Stop, please. Stop.” Then later, “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” The words were of a torturer and the tortured both, interchangeably, and Sam sat by his bed and worried about what Hell had done to his brother’s head.

Often he called his name, and though he knew Dean could not possibly hear him, his temperature as high as it was, as far gone as he was, he murmured soothing things and rubbed salve across his forehead, lay a fresh cloth on it to cool him down. He spoke to him, told him about hunting, about what was on TV.

He spoke to him and he waited.

Gradually Dean’s thrashing slowed and his mumbling quieted and became less frequent and he breathed a sigh of relief. He stopped sweating so profusely and his breathing was easier.

One day he came to the motel to find him asleep and porn on the TV, and laughed. He left it playing. It helped him feel like Dean was with him, reminded him he was recovering.

Another he woke from his own sleep to find Dean watching him through half-slitted eyes, drowsily.

“Hey,” he said. Dean’s mouth curved in a smile.

“You look like shit,” he said. Sam rolled his eyes.

“I’ve had to look after you, dumbass,” he said. “You do realise you’ve been near death this last week?” Dean snorted weakly.

“You exaggerate,” he said. Sam felt himself smile.

“Bitch,” he said.

Dean, asleep, did not reply.

A third day Dean woke from a nightmare, eyes wild, and grabbed for Sam. Sam looked down, opened his mouth to protest, and saw his brother was half-feral with fear. His fingernails dug into Sam’s wrist but he didn’t complain, let Dean hold him, relished the pain for its proof that Dean was here, safe.

“Sam,” Dean rasped, pleaded, and Sam crouched by his bed.

“I’m here,” he said, softly. “I’m here, Dean. I won’t leave you.” He stroked his sweaty hair off his forehead and felt Dean relax under his touch, his grip slacken. He fell asleep still clutching to Sam.

The next morning he woke to find Dean drinking a beer and took it from him.

“Oy,” Dean said.

“You just got better from being sick,” Sam said. “No drinking for you.”

Dean snorted. “What are you, my nursemaid?” Sam flashed him a smile as he put the beer in the fridge.

“Yes,” he said.

The beer was gone that afternoon and he laughed out loud.

He found Dean working the Impala later that day and shooed him back inside.

“Heal,” he ordered him. “Rest.”

“I am healed,” Dean retorted. “I feel fine. Lets hit the road, Sammy. C’mon. There’s a job out there somewhere, and I can hustle pool, of course, we can’t pay for much longer to stay here-“

Sam pushed him onto the bed.

“Rest,” he said firmly, brooking no argument.

Finally he could not deny they needed to move on and Dean grinned at him cockily as he sat behind the Impala’s wheel, crooning at her that he was so sorry he’d abandoned her this long. Sam rolled his eyes. Dean turned his music up loud as they set off.

Sam slapped it off. Dean winked at him.


	28. Tension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Supernatural
> 
> Summary: Sam watches Dean with Mary and mourns

Sam had not realised how tense Dean was all the time until he saw him with Mum, saw him melt into her touch. Until he saw him sag and his eyes close as his breath slowed in his chest. Hadn’t realised how unhappy he was until he saw a single tear roll down his cheek, until he saw his eyes- the sorrow, the love in them. The way he chased her touch when she pulled her hand away, the way she hesitated, lingered for a long moment on his cheek, pressed her lips to his forehead.

He had never seen Dean chase another’s touch before, never seen him stripped so bare. He’d always seen him as strong, as the big brother, as Dad’s favourite, as the proper son, the proper hunter.

But here, now, watching him shed all that, watching him be a child, it struck him how vulnerable his brother really was- how very unhappy he was- how much he needed Mum, needed  _love_.

Love he knew that Dad had never given either of them, and love he had never missed, because he’d never known it.

But Dean… Dean had.

And seeing him now as he fell into Mum’s embrace, as he let her support him, the way he clung to her, let her hold him in a way no one had ever held him, he had never let anyone hold him in trying to be the perfect son, the perfect hunter…

Sam swallowed past a lump in his throat and felt the weight of his demon blood hit him harder.

It was his fault he’d lost all this.

It was his fault Mum had died.

He turned away and brushed tears away from his eyes.


	29. Long Enough to Forgive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Thor/The Avengers
> 
> Summary: It's been a long time, and Thor and Loki reunite

It’d been a long time- long enough to forget transgressions, to forgive. It had been several human lifetimes, and Thor had stopped missing his mortal friends. But he never stopped missing his brother.

He supposed he never would, and never expected to stop missing him. Nor did he ever expect to see him again.

He was proved wrong on that point.

The meeting had been arranged via ravens passed back and forth, and finally the day was here. He was in Alfheim, and he was waiting, half-sure that Loki would not come. Half-sure that he was laughing at him for believing him. Still he waited, hoped, hoped that Loki would show.

And he did.

He stood some distance away, the sun shining on him and creating a halo around his hair, and Thor could only stare. He rose slowly and stared at the angelic figure his brother created, his breath heaving in his chest, tears swimming in his eyes.

“Loki,” he said, awed and stunned, and the spell was broken.

They moved close, step by step, slow and hesitant, until finally they stood before each other, eyes raking up and down each other. Thor itched to hold him but held back.

“You look well,” Loki said after a long moment. “Brother.”

Thor beamed.

“I am well,” he said. “I am now King, brother, and betrothed to Lady Sif.” No crease of anger flashed over Loki’s face, no familiar bitterness, and Thor felt a weight lift off his shoulders. Loki turned slightly to look at the trees, but he was not looking away from Thor.

“I am glad,” he said, and though Thor was always bad at reading his brother, he felt that he was being genuine.

“How have you fared?” Thor asked and Loki turned back to him. “You look well.” He smiled, a smile that lit his pale face up in a way Thor had only remembered from days long gone, and his heart felt like it was going to burst.

“I am well,” he said, and took a step forward. “I am very well.” Thor could not help himself; he reached out and held Loki in his arms, pulled him close to his chest, and felt Loki’s arms close with little hesitation around him, felt his pale skin against his chest, his heart, slowing into a content rhythm. He buried his face in Loki’s shoulder.

“I missed you so,” he said, and felt Loki smile against his neck.

“And I you, brother.”


	30. Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Supernatural
> 
> Summary: Sam is out; but once you get in, you never truly get out.

Going to a bar with friends was a normal thing to do, having a few drinks, talking about stuff. He’d put his arm around Jess and he’d kiss her and make them uncomfortable and they’d laugh at him and tell him to get a room and he’d tease that just because they were jealous was no reason to hate them.

It was normal, a normal night out. He’d slowly grown used to them over the years he’d been out.

That didn’t mean he didn’t check himself after every word to make sure he let nothing slip, nothing about Dad, nothing about Dean, nothing about his life before school. He did not want to talk about them, to have them intrude on this, on the life he’d always wanted.

He had friends, he had a girlfriend, he wanted to marry her. He was even saving money for rings. He was out, for good. He was never going to go back. He was happy here, in this life, in a house with his girl. They were talking about a dog; he’d never had a dog. Motels didn’t allow them, and neither did Dad. Dean scoffed at him when he said he wanted a dog.

“Why?” he’d asked. “So it can be bait?”

He never mentioned a dog again.

And yet every night before bed he checked the house for any signs of untoward supernatural activity. He had a large bag of salt in the kitchen just in case. He had a shotgun hidden in the garage. Remnants of a life he’d escaped, a life that would never truly leave him.

A life he missed.

Not the hunting, no. He hated the hunting. But he missed his brother. He missed hitting the road with Dean, laughing and stuffing Lego in the air vents. He missed scratching his name with a knife on the upholstery. He missed the Impala, her sleek lines, seeing Dean and Dad bent over the engine, watching Dean lovingly cleaning her.

That car was Dad’s car, but she was Dean’s baby.

He missed Dean so badly it constantly ached in his chest, like he was missing something- like half his heart was gone, torn from him. He’d torn it from his own chest, he knew. That did not make it any easier to bear the pain.

As he dressed he worried his lip between his teeth. Normal clothes, normal things in his bag- a cell phone not a gun, earned money not stolen credit cards- normal. He was normal, and no one could tell the difference between him and his friends. They could not know that he was an interloper in their normal life. No one could see the wall that missing Dean, missing the thrill of the hunt was, between them, that he could never truly be one of them, never truly engage in their life.

That he would always be a hunter.

“Sam,” Jess called from downstairs. “Sam, are you ready?” He stared at himself in the mirror for a long moment.

“Yeah,” he called back. “Be there in a second.” He left the bathroom and Jess wrapped an arm around him, kissed him. He returned the kiss, letting his love for her be bigger than the aching regret and emptiness inside him.

“You have to tell them your results,” she said. “They’ll be so pleased. And your interview- you have to tell them about that.” It all sounded so mundane, so boring. Dean would scoff at him for it if he tried to tell him. Dad would tell him to stop dallying and get a move on, there was work to do. He forced a smile as he rested his chin on her head.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll tell them.” She looked up at him, frowning worriedly.

“Sam, are you alright?” she asked, stroking his cheek. He smiled at her fondly, a true smile, caught her hand and rubbed her palm with his thumb.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just tired. Lets go.” She nodded, kissed him once more and headed out. He watched her for a moment before following, looked around his house, his normal, boring house, and he loved and hated it. The emptiness rose up in him again and he shook it away.

He was out, like he’d always wanted. He had the life that he’d always wanted. He had no right to miss the old life now.

He was normal now.

And yet, he could not help but remember Dean’s smile, the people they had saved, and he ached.


	31. Assassination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Thor
> 
> Summary: An attempt has been made on Thor's life. Loki stays by his side as he heals.
> 
> Based on this fanart: http://hanna377148.tumblr.com/post/39463614243/lokisergi-kyuume-its-just-a-fever-from-the

It was far from the first assassination attempt on Asgard’s Golden Son, and it would not be the last. The perpatuators had been caugtht and punished, those Thor had not killed before he sucumbed to his wounds and collapsed. They were dead now, flayed alive as a warning, and Thor was in a private healing room, guarded at all times.

He was near death when they found him, bleeding, blood and poison dripping from his wounds. His breath was shallow and his pulse too fast.

He was instantly put into a deep Sleep to slow the spread of the poison in his veins and to speed the healing process, and Loki had sat by his side, unwaveringly, hour after hour. Mother and Father could not stay around their duties, but Loki, he was always there, holding Thor’s hand, rubbing cloth soaked in salve over his burning forehead, talking to him, reading his books and practising his spells but dropping them the moment a healer came in and asking anxiously after his brother.

“He is healing, your Highness,” the healer said every time as he stepped back and she checked his wounds, changed his bandages, made sure his bruises were going down. And Loki watched, helpless, and waited.

Thor woke before the Sleep was supposed to wear off. His eyes opened a slit, warriors eyes scanning the room, and he grabbed for Loki, pulled him close by the arm.

“Loki,” he rasped. “Watch yourself.” Loki rested his forehead against Thor’s, Thor’s heat searing him, carded his hands through his hair.

“Hush,” he said. “Brother, you are safe. They are punished.” Thor frowned, his warrior focus giving way to confusion. He looked down at himself, still bandaged and bruised, and opened his mouth.

“I am weak,” he said. “Loki, what-“

“It is poison damage. You are merely fevered.” Thor frowned, lay back, his hand slipping from Loki’s arm. Loki grasped it with his fingers and Thor twined his through his. Loki pressed a kiss to his sweat-matted hair.

“Sleep,” he said. “You are not done healing.” Thor gazed into Loki’s eyes as the healer arrived and pushed him aside, fussing over him, silent, and Loki did not take his from Thor’s until he was deep in Sleep again.

Then he sat beside his bed and waited.


	32. Pattern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Supernatural
> 
> Summary: When Dean has a problem, he drinks.

Dean had a pattern.

He had a problem, and he drank.

His first beer was swiped from Dad as a teenager. He sat on the couch and tried to look cool as he drank it but his eyes kept darting to the door as if Dad was going to walk through any moment and he was jumpy. Sam laughed at him; he told him to shut up.

Ever since he would swipe beer from time to time.

After his first proper hunting trip he was pale and shaken, and he grabbed a beer and chugged it down in a very different way. Sam was too scared to ask him what he’d seen; he knew it wasn’t good, couldn’t be. From then on in he drank because he needed to.

After his own hunting trip, Sam understood the need. He remembered feeling sick and sore and tired as he dug up a grave (just a ghost; nothing more for a first trip, a run-of-the-mill ghost) and when Dean held the bottle out to him he chugged it.

He tried to talk to Dean about it but Dean refused to talk. Dean had always refused to talk about what really mattered. But he noticed a pattern; when he came back from hunting, he drank. When he was stressed, he drank.

He learned to measure Dean’s stress levels by how much he was drinking.

When he had only one or two, he was alright, normal. When he was never seen without it, he was seriously stressed. Sam watched his steps around him then; Dean had Dad’s temper.

When he started talking about leaving, going to school, Dean shouted at him until he was too afraid to speak again. He caught Dean looking sideways at him from then on and hated the mistrust in his eyes; hated that he was going to do something to warrant it.

When he ran away Dean had a beer in his hand, and he heard Dean and Dad rowing halfway down the road.

Dean swiped a beer from his fridge when he broke in to ask for help, and Sam had forgotten Dean’s temper while drinking. He tried to get it back and Dean’s glare frightened him. He stepped back and said nothing as Dean talked about how Dad was gone and didn’t think twice before agreeing to come, even when Jess tried to talk him out of it.

He hated himself then for getting back in after he’d struggled so hard to get out; hated himself for looking forward to the rush and thrill of hunting.

Once you were in, you never left; not really.

As Dean lived his year before going to Hell, he was never seen without a drink in his hand, and Sam had forgotten his tells. Sam had forgotten how stressed that meant he was; and when he started actually talking, he was terrified, because that meant Dean was really stressed, that he’d pushed too far.

He tried to let him enjoy his last year on Earth after that.

It was worse, though, after he came back.

He didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, was obsessed with hunting and instead of always having one in his hand, he was always drinking them. There was a new darkness in his eyes, one which terrified Sam, darkness and anger and hatred and fear, and Sam did not dare ask.

When Dean talked about that without any pushing from Sam, Sam just wanted to run. Dean was not supposed to be vulnerable and talk about things. He was supposed to be tough and protect Sam, not need protecting.

But Sam felt he needed to protect Dean from his own darkness, for the first time.

He watched Dean push himself too far, and then keep going, watched him keep going past the point any rational human being would go. He hated himself for doubting that Dean was human sometimes; for thinking that Hell had changed him more than obvious, that he was broken and twisted beyond repair.

He was Dean; he’d be okay.

He watched as he drank and drank and drank as Heaven got on his tail, as angels dogged him, pushed him to the edge. And he watched as he stepped back and said no.

He watched as he drank later, exhausted and doubting himself, and he wanted so badly to comfort him but knew he would not be welcome, that he would not welcome comfort.

And so he just watched.

He watched as he dealt with Ben and Lisa, tore himself up over them, got back in the life but left part of himself with them, watched him pick up the phone and put it down, watched him spend more than he ever had before on beer, steal more than he ever had before.

And when he had Cas wipe their memories he could not bring himself to judge him for it. It was a dick move and he said so, but he understood, understood better than anyone.

He remembered Jess, loved Jess still.

He remembered Jess and watched Dean drink, and understood as he shared a bottle, as he tried to ward of the flashes of memory with drink.

He understood, and he drank with Dean.


	33. Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Supernatural
> 
> Summary: When Sam sees Dean again, he looks like Dad.

Sam had not seen his brother in years. When last he’d seen him (when he left the life after a massive fight with his father) he was furious, shouting at him not to abandon his family and betray them, and if he was going to leave he might as well never come back. Sam had shouted back that he didn’t want to be part of this family anyway and he didn’t ever want to come back.

He turned away before he saw the look on Dean’s face at his words, trying to tell himself that he had to leave- this was not the life for him. Trying to ignore the guilt and disgust that welled up in him, at himself, at Dean, at Dad.

As he stormed away he could not stop himself from looking back.

Dad slammed the motel door shut and was nowhere to be seen, but he saw Dean watching him through the window.

Dean lifted his hand to wave farewell. He did not return the gesture.

Now Dean was in his house and grinning as he helped him up from the surprise attack.

“You’re slow,” he said. “I almost got you.” Sam crossed his arms over his chest and raked his eyes over Dean. He looked so old. The lines around his eyes were deep, and his eyes themselves- Sam had to look away. He saw Dad in those eyes, clear as day, and he knew why he’d left. He did not want to turn into Dad, and he knew that if he’d stayed he’d be like Dean right now- like Dad. The guilt at abandoning his family ate at him again. He thought of Jess, of law school, of his future and set his jaw.

“Why are you here?” he asked, and Dean’s face fell, the forced levity dropping as if it had never been there, and he looked older than ever. He closed his eyes, weariness in his every line.

Jess came downstairs.

“Sam?” she asked, looking between him and Dean. “Sam, who is this?”

“My brother, Dean,” Sam said. Jess frowned. “He’s just leaving.” Dean met his eyes and he knew that look- knew that Dean would not give up until he had what he came for.

“I need to talk to you,” Dean said, ignoring Jess. “Alone.” Sam was just as stubborn as his brother.

“Whatever you need to say, you can say it in front of her,” he said, and Dean’s eyes flashed in anger. Sam controlled his reflex to take a step back. Dean was scary when he was angry, but he’d never hurt him.

“Fine,” he spat. “It’s Dad. He’s on a hunting trip and hasn’t come back for a few days.”

Sam’s heart stopped.


	34. Bobby's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Supernatural
> 
> Summary: Bobby watches the boys grow up and become John.

When the boys were young, John used to leave them at Bobby’s when he went hunting. Bobby tried to keep them occupied, to stop Dean from asking questions, to stop Sam from worrying about his dad. He would show them how to fix cars, let them help him, he’d cook with them, he even bought a working TV so they could watch cartoons. And, for just a few weeks, a few days, they had a normal childhood, as best as he could give it to them.

He knew it would end, they would get in. They had to; they were John’s boys, and John was so fixated on revenge that he wouldn’t let them get out even if they tried. Watching Dean eagerly handing him a wrench to fix an engine, his little freckled face lit up in a grin, he had to smile back, and his heart ached. Watching Sam fixated on the TV, cheering as the Roadrunner beat Coyote, he had to smile, and his heart ached.

He looked at the cheerful children in his care and saw the men they would become, men like John, men like him. And so he gave them all the childhood they were likely to get.

As they grew older, as John carted them around more, Bobby saw them less. Dean was old enough to take care of Sam; and when Bobby said that it was no big deal to look after the boys John insisted he could do it. He looked at Dean, sitting in the car, scratching at the upholstery with a knife, and he prayed for him. He looked at Sam, watching Dean, eyes shining with devotion and love, pulling on his sleeve and clamouring to have his turn, and he prayed for him.

It was months before he saw the boys again. He asked after them the few times John called and he said they were fine, but he did not offer any details about them, and Bobby’s heart ached.

Dean looked to have aged years when he next saw him. He no longer helped with the cars with a childish smile but with a grim expression. He was jumpy and frightened, every noise making him raise his knife, and Bobby wished he could have been a child longer.

Wished he could have been a child at all.

Sam still watched cartoons but sullenly, slouching. He argued with Dean whenever he spoke to him, and Dean argued back. He snapped at Dean to go away, and Dean  stormed out the door.

The TV broke when Sam was nine; he started to fix it but Sam told him not to bother.

He came downstairs one night to find Dean tearing it apart and trying to put it back together. He sat with him and helped him, and Dean looked up at him with eyes altogether too old and sad for a child of thirteen.

Sam did not watch cartoons the next morning, even when Dean turned it on for him, sat beside him, just turned it off.

“Cartoons are stupid,” he scowled, and Bobby saw what Sam did not: the devastation that crossed Dean’s face.

When Dean was fourteen and Sam ten, the family came to Bobby’s place and he knew instantly that Sam knew what his family did. He knew Dean had told him, and he knew John had punished him for it. Dean was skittish around his father, cringing away when he looked at him, snapping to do whatever he told him to do, and Bobby’s lips pursed, but he said nothing.

When Sam was thirteen he was always arguing with both Dean and John and Dean was carrying around a silver knife, putting himself between Sam and everyone else as a matter of course. Sam pushed him away, shouting he did not need him, and Bobby wanted to soothe Dean but knew he would not be welcome. So he watched from a distance as Dean withdrew into himself, tried desperately to attract John’s attention, his praise. He redid cars with him and the seventeen year old knew that it was Bobby’s way of telling him he knew what was going on, what he was thinking.

When Dean was twenty-two, Bobby recieved a call from him.

“Sam’s gone,” he said, and he sounded devastated and relieved. Then he hung up.

Three days later Dean turned up on his doorstep and he ushered him inside. They drank together and fixed cars for a week and then John showed up.

“If you’re done slacking off,” he told Dean, “We have work to do.” Anger and guilt tightened around Dean’s eyes and Bobby felt himself balling his fists in his pockets as he got up and climbed into the passenger seat of the Impala, staring straight out the window, straight backed and tense, and Bobby remembered the child who had laughed as he helped him to fix cars so long ago.

He didn’t see Sam for years. Dean popped in and out but never stayed long, always leaving when he caught wind of a case or John summoned him.

Bobby watched him grow older and older, older than any child should be, than any young man should be, and he hated John, hated him for ruining the boys he’d watched play as children, carefree and happy.

He watched Dean slowly become John, and mourned.

When Sam came back he saw John in his eyes, and mourned.


	35. Hunting Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Supernatural
> 
> Summary: Dean is a hunting dog, and nothing more.

**1**

He was six years old, and he had to protect his brother.

That was what Dad always said, and he did not question it.

He still remembered before, still remembered Mum, still missed her, but he was not to talk about it. Dad shouted at him for doing so, for asking how she'd died, why they were left at Uncle Bobby's so often, where he went, what he did.

"You have to protect Sammy," Dad told him before he left. He looked at him as he toddled about, as Bobby kept an eye on him to stop him from falling and hurting himself on the car parts strewn about.

"From what?" he asked. Dad turned away and he tugged at his sleeve.

"Dad?" he asked. He turned back sharply.

"Don't ask me that," he snapped. He frowned in confusion.

"But you say to protect Sammy-" Dad grabbed his shoulder, pulled him close, and he fell silent, his eyes widening, almost afraid.

"And you have to," he said, low, intense, and he nodded, swallowing.

"Okay," he said, bowing his head. "I will, Dad." Dad turned and walked away.

He stopped asking questions.

**2**

He was ten years old and he’d found Dad’s journal.

He wasn’t able to stop reading. His eyes went wide and the the blood drained from his cheeks and his hands shook so hard he had to put it on the bed so not to drop it. He was so absorbed in it that he didn’t notice Dad was staring at him.

“Dean,” he said, calmly. Dean threw the journal away, swallowing, fear constricting his chest, hunching down and preparing for a blow. Dad hit him sometimes when he was angry, and he had never seen him so angry.

“I didn’t mean- it was just-” he began, sentences broken. “I’m sorry, I-”

“Dean.”

He fell instantly silent.

“Why did you read it?” The words fell from his lips quickly, before he could stop them.

“I wanted to know what you do, why I need to protect Sam, I don’t know how or what from-”

“Dean.” He gulped and hunched in on himself, the diary glaring at him from the corner of his eye, mocking him, mocking him and his weakness.

“You need to protect your brother.” He dared to glance up, disbelieving. He wasn’t in trouble? He nodded.

“How?” he asked, earnestly. There Dad’s gaze flashed to the diary, fury in his every line, and he flinched away, eyes falling back to the ground.

“I’ll protect him, Dad,” he said. “I will.” He felt Dad’s eyes on him and looked up, shaking. He could not look away from Dad, their eyes locked, Dad’s hard and his frightened.

“You had better,” Dad said.

He let out a shaky breath.

**3**

He was eleven, and Sam had run away.

“I told you to protect him!” Dad roared and he cringed back, hunched his shoulders, prepared for the blow that followed mere seconds later. He was dragged to his feet and close enough that Dad’s spittle sprayed all over him.

“You were supposed to protect him and you let him get away!” He said nothing, just trembled and stared at the ground. “Why?”

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, voice barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry.” He was shaken roughly.

“That is not good enough!” he shouted. “Sam could be dead, and if he is, it is all your fault!” His tears fell uncontrollably and he tried so hard to stem them. Dad hated any sign of weakness.

He was nearly flung onto the bed, where he huddled, breathing shallowly, and then saw eyes at the window. Sam’s eyes, wide and scared.

He said nothing as they vanished.

Sam did not return for three days.

**4**

He was thirteen, and for his birthday he had received a gun, a target and instructions that he was not to miss or else.

He didn’t.

He received only a non-committal grunt in reward and the sound of footsteps going the other way.

Suddenly the gun in his hand was as heavy as all the expectations Dad had ever put on him.

**5**

He was fifteen and on his first hunt.

“Go round the back,” Dad said. He hesitated, held his gun in shaking hands. Dad fixed him with a look, not unkind.

“Round the back, son,” he said, and he jolted.

He rarely ever called him son, and he hated the flash of desperation that filled him, the desperation for the love the term implied, the love he’d not had since he was a child. He barely remembered that love, only the feeling of warmth it gave him.

He still longed for it.

He headed out the back without a further word.

**6**

He was seventeen, and he was drinking. He was drinking to forget the ghost who had wailed in his ear, the child’s ghost, the child searching for her mother, the ghost who was ripped and bloody.

He shuddered and took a long gulp.

“Dean,” Dad called, and he looked up, eyes unfocussed, hands shaking. Dad knelt before him.

“Pull yourself together son,” he said, gruffly. “There’s worse out there.”

He took a long gulp of beer.

**7**

He was twenty. He was a hunter. He was a soldier. He had a brother to protect and a father who hadn’t been his father since he was a child. He could pull apart a gun in seconds. He’d invented a salt bullet to take out ghosts easier, and Dad used it but had never praised for it. He didn’t need praise; he was a soldier, a hunter. He wasn’t a child who needed to be pandered. He was a man who could take care of himself, who had to take care of his brother.

He was twenty, he was a hunter, he was a soldier, and he would not cry like a child.

**8**

He was twenty two, and Sam had just left, stormed down the road with nothing but the clothes on his back.

“Son,” Dad said. He was twenty two and he had been raised a soldier and a hunter, a gun to be pointed and a dog to unleash. He turned, face hard, anger burning under his skin.

“I am not your son,” he said, and went to the motel door. He turned back to him. “And you have never been my father.”

He shut the door on his enraged face.

**9**

He was twenty six. He was a hunting dog, and he was nothing without his master. That could be the only reason he was chasing a man who had never cared for him enough to be his father.

It was the only reason he could figure for why he was going to Sam, going to selfishly drag him back into the life. Because a hunting dog cannot work alone.

A hunting dog needs someone to hunt with.


	36. Daddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Supernatural
> 
> Dean and John's relationship over the years.

"Daddy's home!" Dean shouted, running for the door. Mary laughed, glancing up the stairs to where Sam was hopefully still sleeping. "Daddy! Daddy!" The car wasn't pulled in yet, and she caught his arm.

"Hush," she said.  "You'll wake Sammy." Dean stared into her face.

"Sorry Mummy," he said. "Daddy's home." His little face split into a broad grin. Mary kissed his forehead.

"So you've said," she said. The door opened and he tore away from her, ran to John, threw himself into his arms. John caught him, laughed, kissed his forehead.

"Hey, buddy," he said, ruffling his hair. Dean clung to him like a little monkey.

"Daddy!" John held him tighter to his chest.

XX

“Daddy?” he asked, holding Sam tight to his chest, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Daddy, is Mummy okay?” He didn’t reply, just wrapped his arms around his sons, and Dean buried his face in his chest and wept.

XX

Dean looked at Bobby as he held Sam, rocked him, heard the car pull up.

"Daddy's back," he said, beaming. Bobby smiled back at him.

"Ssh," he said. "You'll wake your brother." Dean waited by the door impatiently. As soon as it opened he ran at John.

"Daddy,” he said, threw his arms around his leg. John looked worn, haggard, and pushed him away. Dean frowned at him, trailed after him, pulling his trouser leg.

“Daddy?” he asked.

“Not now,” John said, staring at nothing, and walked off, leaving Dean confused.

XX

“Daddy’s back,” Dean said to Bobby as Sam held his hand to stay up. “Come on Sam,” he said, walking slowly to the door, supporting his stumbling baby brother. “Let’s show Daddy how big you’ve become.” Sam’s face split into a broad, toothless grin.

“Dean,” he giggled, and Dean laughed, kissed his forehead.

“Come on,” he said. “Lets show Daddy what you can do.”

But though his voice was pitched hopefully, his eyes weren’t hopeful.

John opened the door and met Bobby’s eyes, looking right over his sons.

“Daddy,” Dean said, quietly. “Sam can walk now.” John’s face split into a tired smile and Bobby didn’t miss the flash of hurt in Dean’s eyes when he bent down to crouch before his youngest.

“Aren’t you clever,” he said, ruffling his hair. Sam giggled.

“Dean,” he said, and John’s eyes flashed to Dean, who dropped his to the floor, hunching slightly.

“Come on Sammy,” Dean said. “Dad’s tired.” As he stepped forward he took Sam’s hand and Sam toddled after him into the lounge room.

XX

They were eight and four, and alone in a shitty motel room, when the car pulled up outside.

Sam looked up, eyes sparkling.

“Daddy’s back!” he said. Dean was unenthusiastic but put on a smile for his brother.

“Go and greet him then,” he said. Sam frowned, moved close, held Dean’s hands, stared into his eyes.

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you glad he’s back?” he asked, earnestly. He was, he truly was.

“Yeah,” he said, threading his fingers through Sam’s.

The door opened and John stared at the tableau, brow creasing at his son’s joined hands. Dean pulled his away.

“Daddy,” Sam said, running to him, and John patted his hair briefly. Dean stared at him and he turned and went into the small bathroom without a word to him.

XX

They were nine and five, and Sam was watching cartoons.

“What’s he doing that for?” he asked Dean, earnestly. Dean grinned at him, leaned close to whisper in his ear.

“He wants to trick him,” he said, pointing at Coyote. “His trick is going to backfire- he’ll dump all those rocks on himself.” Sam laughed and he watched Sam watch cartoons with a fond smile for a moment, then watched the cartoons, cheering as loudly as Sam when the rocks fell upon Coyote’s head and Roadrunner ran off, as much as he’d expected it.

Neither heard the car coming and Sam looked over at the door as it opened.

John looked tired, haggard, and stared at the cartoon, disapproval in his gaze, turned his eyes upon Dean, who cringed slightly.

“Boys,” he said, and went into the bathroom.

Dean turned the TV off.

XX

They were ten and six and Sam wanted to watch cartoons.

“Dean, please?” he asked. Dean closed his eyes for a moment and then shook his head.

“No,” he said, finally, thinking about what Dad would say. Sam’s eyes were huge and pleading.

“Dean, I want to, please?” He tugged on his hand, and Dean pulled it from his grasp.

“Then you watch them,” he said.

“It’s not the same without you, though,” Sam said. Dean turned away.

“You’re a big boy now,” he said. “You can watch cartoons yourself.” Sam turned away and Dean swallowed a lump of anger down his throat. It sat in his belly and he clenched his jaw.

XX

They were twelve and eight, and Sam had given up on ever having fun with his brother again.

Dean hated that Sam didn’t even want to be around him anymore, but he also hated Dad’s disgust at the things Sam wanted to do, and he hated hated hated it when Dad was disgusted at him.

So he said no until Sam stopped asking.

He watched him sometimes before turning away, and felt a seed of hatred plant itself in his heart.

XX

He was fourteen years old and had just torched his first corpse.

His arms ached so much that he thought he’d never be able to lift them again, and he never wanted to see another shovel in his life.

He was being violently sick.

He felt Dad watching him, silently, judging him for his weakness, but he could not stop throwing up, gagging and retching. Could not banish the half-rotted skeleton from his memory, the stench, the maggots.

He hated his weakness but could not stop it.

Dad turned and walked away.

XX

He was sixteen years old and he had vowed never to be sick again. He broke that promise to himself time and again, but he was very proud that he’d managed to hold it in, that he could hide it. Dad didn’t look quite so unhappy with him when he hid it.

Sam could not reach him, could not break through his armour, and he had stopped trying. That hurt, to see his little brother so alone, but he could not disappoint Dad, could not let Sam see what he and Dad did. He wasn’t allowed to tell him, and Dad would be disappointed if he did.

He would not let himself disappoint Dad again.

XX

Sam was thirteen when he came to him with the diary and demanded the truth. And Dean told him.

When Dad came back he took one look at them and knew.

He didn’t hit Dean, didn’t scold him. He just gave him a long look and turned away, and Dean felt his stomach turn to ice.

XX

He was twenty. He was a hunter. He was a soldier.

He was not going to break down and start crying like some sissy, was not going to screw up, he’d been raised and trained to be better.

“Dean,” Sam snapped. He turned to his brother and Sam pinned him with a glare. “You cannot keep me here.” He locked the door and stood in front of it, knowing Sam could pick locks- he’d taught him how.

“I can and I will,” he said, setting his jaw. “I am going to keep you safe. You know what’s out there.” Sam rolled his eyes.

“I know,” he said. “You only beat it into my skull every five seconds. I want to go to the shop.”

“Then I’ll go,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”

“Dean!” Sam shouted, threw his hands in the air and turned away. “You’re as bad as Dad.”

Mixed pride and dread ran through him, and Dean did not relish either.

XX

He was twenty-two, and had to be the hunter for both himself and Sam, because Sam had abandoned them. He had to do the work of both of them for Dad. And he did.

He did all the work.

He was never praised. He did not want it. Did not need it.

He was a hunter; this was his life.

XX

He could not stop staring at Mum as she opened the door, swallowed, suddenly a child again, a child who loved his Mum, a child who adored his Mum, and he just wanted to hug her, to ensconce himself in her arms again. He was vaguely aware of Sam equally stunned beside him, and then Dad came to the door.

He wasn’t even aware of straightening, of clearing his features, of holding his head high and his shoulders back like a soldier for inspection. He wasn’t aware that the tension that had dropped from his shoulders at the sight of Mum returned with a rush.

He wasn’t aware of Sam’s vaguely incredulous stare at the man who was their father, and yet wasn’t their father, a man in love, a soft man.

A man who had all the emotions on his face he’d taught his sons to repress.

Dean hated him in that moment. Hated him more than he’d hated anyone else.

He schooled his face into something resembling what he hoped was friendliness, but by the look on Dad’s face, he’d failed.


	37. The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Supernatural
> 
> Dean has been afraid of the dark ever since he was a child.

Ever since he was a child, Dean had been afraid of the dark. Mum had used to turn the nightlight on and kiss his forehead and check the corners and assure him there were no monsters. He’d been able to sleep after that.

Dad always checked the corners, though he never asked, but it wasn’t soothing, not like when Mum did it, after Mum died. And he was always gone. Dean would check the corners himself, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not shake the feeling that there were monsters watching them, and in those moments he remembered Mum and how she’d make him feel safe and cried.

Sammy wasn’t afraid of the dark. He was afraid of monsters but not the dark, and he always asked Dean to check for monsters before bed.

Dean would, swallowing back tears as he remembered Mum, trying to do what she did for Sammy even if he couldn’t do it for himself, and Sammy always went to sleep.

He would lie awake in the dark and try not to cry. He had to be strong for Sammy.

He never told Dad about his fear of the dark, his fear of monsters. He didn’t want Dad to think he was weak. Dad had taught him to shoot a gun and he didn’t want him to think he couldn’t handle it.

Sammy, though, did tell him when he was there. And he checked for Sammy.

Dean looked away, but it reassured him too. If Dad said there were no monsters, there were no monsters.

When Dad told him there really were monsters, he didn’t accuse him of lying to Sammy- to him. He just sat quietly, terrified, and wished he’d never been right. When he told him about the different monsters, he was shaking with fear.

Dad put a hand on his shoulder.

“You have to protect Sammy,” he said. Dean nodded, looked up.

“I will,” he said, and wondered who would protect him.

When he told Sam there really were monsters, Sam did ask about the monsters under the bed.

“Dad checked,” he said. Sam looked at him with big eyes.

“And when you looked?” Dean did not smile. It had been a long time since he felt like smiling.

“I checked too,” he said, grimly.

Dean never stopped being afraid of the dark.

Hell was very dark when it wasn’t very bright. And even now, when he was out of Hell, when he was with Sam, he didn’t feel safe.

He lay awake at night, tried not to feel his breathing quickening, his hands sweating, the fear that congealed in his belly, that weighed him down, the sheer terror that had him curling away from anything that moved, at any sound.

He remembered the feel of the whip in his hand, the fear in the eyes of the other lost souls when he approached, and he gave up on sleep.

He sat up and watched porn, but could never truly get engaged. He drank but could never truly forget. He hunted but could not shake the feeling that he ought to be being hunted.

He felt Sam’s eyes on him, felt Sam watching him, and could not escape the fact he had changed- that his brother did not truly know him. That he didn’t know himself anymore.

He would not sleep with a lamp on- it would make no difference. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw Hell painted across the back in broad strokes, remembered the heat, the pain, the fear, in himself and in others, the fear he’d inspired in them, the screams he’d wrenched from them. The screams he’d screamed.

He sat up and blinked it away, but whenever he blinked he saw flashes of it, and he feared he’d left part of himself back there.

He was always afraid.

He clung to his fear, because it proved he was still human.


	38. Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Supernatural
> 
> Kid!Sam and Kid!Dean.
> 
> Kid!Sam is being bullied; Kid!Dean steps in.

Sam stuck his chin proudly, stubbornly in the air.

“Piss off,” he said, his book held tight to his chest. “Or I’ll make you.” The boys laughed as they approached, cracking their knuckles.

“Is that so, Winchester?” one sniggered. Sam did not flinch back, did not so much as budge. He put his book deliberately down. “You can do that, midget?”

“Yes,” another voice said, and the boys turned to see Dean approaching with rapid strides, shoulders set, eyes challenging.

“You’re lucky your big brother was here to save you,” one sneered before they left. Dean’s glare made him scurry off faster. Sam sat down and picked up his book, scowling slightly.

“I could have taken them,” he said. Dean smiled, clapped him on the shoulder.

“I know,” he said. Sam’s face lit up in a smile. Dean ruffled his hair.


End file.
